


A Nightmare Waiting to Happen

by triggerlil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Dursley Family (Harry Potter), Ambiguous/Open Ending, Antagonist James in Dream, Attempted Suicide, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Body Horror, Bullying, Cannibalism, Character Death In Dream, Child Death in Dream, Childhood Trauma, Choking, Claustrophobia, Clones, Corpses, Curses, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Established Relationship, Eye Gouging, Eye Trauma, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hogwarts, Homophobic Language, Horror, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Husbands, Legilimency (Harry Potter), M/M, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Moths, Nightmares, No Explicit Sexual Content, Post-Hogwarts, Protective Draco Malfoy, Sectumsempra (Harry Potter), Sexist Language, Snakes, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Unreliable Narrator, Vomiting, Zombies, bug horror, enucleation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26731468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triggerlil/pseuds/triggerlil
Summary: Draco sat beside Harry's bed as the man breathed deeply; his eyes were moving rapidly beneath his eyelids, and every so often, he would twitch or part his lips. Draco couldn’t imagine what was going on in Harry’s mind, but he clutched his husband’s hand, wishing he could take his place, do anything to help.Harry Potter is cursed into a nightmare-verse—escaping one nightmare only causes him to fall deeper through the layers of his subconscious—will he be able to free himself, or will his deepest fears swallow him whole?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 33
Kudos: 67
Collections: H/D Hurt!Fest 2020





	1. Layer One -The Dursleys

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time really writing horror, and it was a super interesting and fun experience. Thank you so much to the hurt fest team for running this fest, and for allowing people to explore the darker, hurtier side of fanfic!
> 
> To Lep and Rae: I don't know what I would do without you. Thank you for being with me through every step of this fic. 
> 
> Thank you to Alicia, Tolu, and Shravani for the thorough and helpful betas, any remaining mistakes are entirely my own. 
> 
> And of course, Maya and Blue, you two are the best. 
> 
> All of the violence, gore, and horror tags happen within dreams.

ORESTES: Where have I seen you before?

MOIRA: In a dream? 

ORESTES: A thousand years ago.

-x- 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Malfoy. We’re not sure when he’ll wake up.” 

Draco felt anger flare through him, the desire to lash out palpable. “What do you mean, you’re not sure?” he ground out. “Is there a chance he’ll wake up or not?”

“The curse that hit him was very intricate, if you look at this scan, strands of magic have wrapped themselves around the brain stem and into the amygdala. There’s no way for us to remove it without sending him into a vegetative state.” 

“So that’s it? There’s nothing you can do?”

The mediwitch shook her head, eyes brimming with pity. It made Draco want to retch. “The curse has put him to sleep. We will continue to monitor his vitals and communicate with the Aurors to try and find a cure.” 

“What did they hit him with?” 

“It has no true name. It was homemade by the wizard who attacked your husband. But he said he’s called it the Incubus Curse.” Draco’s heart dropped, a chill sweeping across his shoulders. “From what we can tell, it is a curse which traps one in an endless nightmare.” 

The earth tilted beneath Draco’s feet. Harry had always somehow been alright after fieldwork. Draco would come into the hospital, shaking his head, as Harry sat on the side of the bed getting his head wrapped in bandages; or Draco would come rushing in, with Harry laying under white sheets, and would sob as Harry smiled guiltily. 

Now, he sat at Harry’s bedside, as Harry breathed deeply; his eyes were moving rapidly beneath his eyelids, and every so often, he would twitch or part his lips. Draco couldn’t imagine what was going on in Harry’s mind, but he clutched his husband’s hand, wishing he could take his place, do anything to help. 

-x- 

Harry woke in the darkness, drenched in a cold sweat and gasping for breath, sheets tangled around his legs. He lay still for a moment, re-orienting and attempting to calm himself, before reaching for his glasses on the bedside table and turning over to nudge Draco awake.

Except Draco wasn’t there. His side of the bed didn’t even look slept in, and when Harry patted the mattress, it was ice cold. Lighting his wand, he realised he wasn’t in their bed. Raising his wand higher, he wasn’t in their house at all… The bed was a small single, with thin sheets, and the room was bare except for a trunk at the foot, an empty owl cage in one corner, and bars on the windows. A chill trickled down Harry’s spine, each drop of sweat standing out against the goose pimples rising on his skin. 

He held up his right hand—a golden wedding band was snug around his ring finger. 

Slipping out of the bed quietly, he grunted with discomfort as his clothes pinched into his skin. Looking down, he was wearing a pair of blue pyjama bottoms that didn’t even go past his ankles, and a cotton shirt drawn tight across his chest. He silently thanked Draco as he cast the extension charm he had taught him, his clothes expanding to fit him properly. 

At the window he gripped the metal bars, craning his neck to peer into the night sky. A full moon glowed dimly on the back garden, flowers and grass overgrown and clambering over each other for slices of earth.

As quietly as possible, avoiding the known creaky floorboards, he padded to the door and pressed an ear to the wood. He couldn’t hear anything on the other side. Holding his breath, he slowly turned the doorknob, stepping out into the hallway. 

The house was silent, and exactly as he remembered it. There were three other rooms on the top floor which he didn’t dare disturb, their doors tightly shut. Even the carpet under his bare feet sent a wave of bitter remembrance, and as he crept forward to go down the stairs, he cast a wand lighting charm, bringing it up to the photographs lining the walls. With disgusted fascination, he examined each photo: a family of three with their arms around each other, portraits of a boy at various stages of life, but in every one, all the faces were oddly blurred out. No matter what angle Harry looked at them, he couldn’t make out their features, though he could guess who they were from their clothing and posture. 

At the bottom of the stairs, the house remained silent and dark, and again, was exactly as he remembered it. Kitchen off to the right, living room in front, and if he walked to the left, he would reach the front door, would be able to go outside and perhaps gain some insight into what was going on. 

In fact, he realised in that moment there was nothing stopping him from doing just that. He walked forward toward the front door, the past falling away behind him as he reached for the handle. He turned it slowly, as if trying to use a sixth sense to tell him what was on the outside. The muscles in his arms tightened with anticipation.

To nothing. 

He stood at the door and looked out into a world that was pitch black. There was the drive, and the primroses under the window, and the sign that read Number 4 Privet Drive, but after that… After that, the world was a void. 

Harry broke into a sprint. It was the only thing he could think to do. No, was  _ compelled _ to do. To run and jump headfirst into the void. This was obviously a dream, and he wanted to wake up. He wanted to wake up in Draco’s arms, away from this house that had caused him so much torment. 

He felt the asphalt drive under his bare feet, burning his heels and sending shocks of pain reeling through every bone in his legs. He didn’t stop, just careened into the blackness, and then he was falling. He became a void himself, a mind careening through absolute darkness, towards death, towards waking.

Towards… 

For a certain indiscernible moment in time, there was a blip where Harry James Potter did not exist. No consciousness, no body, nothing. 

Until he sat up with a gasp, adrenaline pumping through his nervous system.

He looked around the room. Patted the bed next to him. Felt that his glasses were still on his face.

“Fuck,” he whispered into the dark. 

This time, he didn’t run his hands over every surface with repulsion, warped memories bordering on nostalgia. He hurried down the stairs and rushed to the front door, almost tripping over himself in his desperation to open it. 

He ran down the drive so fast it felt like the bottom of his feet were being ripped open, each bone in his legs shattering, one by one. He didn’t care. He carried himself into the nothingness.

And woke up in a bedroom with bars on the windows and an empty owl cage. Again. 

He pushed down the growing urge to scream. To just… yell and pound his fists and maybe even cry. 

He got out of bed and stretched. Brought his fingers towards the ceiling and then dropped down to touch his toes, felt his skin stretch across his back and an almost pleasurable ache in his calves. He counted to five, straightened up, and proceeded to walk out of the bedroom and down the stairs. 

At the foot of the stairs, he took a deep breath. There was no other choice, if he was to have any hope of getting out of his nightmare, he was going to have to do so from within the house.

Which meant he would have to pass the cupboard under the stairs, the one closest to the living room door, and he stood rooted to the floor, trying to steel himself to walk forward. 

He took a few steps but paused again. He tilted his head. He thought he had heard a sound, and he stood waiting to see if it would happen again. 

_ Scritch, scritch scritch.  _

It was so gentle he might have been imagining it, but he stood still and alert, eyes narrowed towards the cupboard. 

_ Scritch, scritch, scritch.  _

Harry took a tentative step forward, holding out the lit tip of his wand. The muscles in his arms and legs were tense. As he approached the cupboard under the stairs, the sound got more pronounced, until he stood right in front of the little door, and it was undeniable that the scratching came from within. 

He took a slow breath in and then let it out, preparing himself, just like in the field. Bending down, he grasped the doorknob, and drew the cupboard open with a rusted screech. The scratching stopped abruptly, and Harry found himself staring at the back of a hunched figure. They were cast in shadow, but leaning forward with the light, Harry noticed they were wearing similar pyjamas to himself, and had similar hair, curling every which way. 

“Hello, are you alright?” he asked tentatively. His throat was dry and scratchy, as if he hadn’t used his voice for some time. 

Harry watched in disbelief as the figure turned around, and in the dim light, revealed their face; it was himself at seventeen or so, lips pulled back into a startled snarl, but… Harry stumbled backwards. 

His doppelganger had no eyes, just two sockets, blood so dark it was black smeared around the gaping cavities, pouring out of the holes and down its cheeks. 

The copy crawled forward, clacking its teeth, and Harry brandished his wand, taking another step back. He still instinctively knew the layout of the house, and when the copy leaped forward like a caged animal, he was ready. 

“Flipendo,” he cried, sending the copy smashing back into the cupboard. 

Harry ran into the living room, slamming the door behind him. He locked it hastily, but if there was anything he’d learned being an Auror, it was that locked doors didn’t hold for long. 

The only light in the living room came from his wand and street lamps outside. Harry didn’t have time to think about where the void had gone. He quickly conjured a chair, pushing it under the doorknob, and a cement block to try and hold it in place. He ran over to the window and hastily pulled it open, but was greeted by the void. 

When he closed the window and looked through the glass, he saw Privet Drive. When he opened the window, he was met by the void. 

There was a scratching at the door. If he couldn’t run from the house, he would have to run farther in. He strode into the connected kitchen, shoving a chair under that door too. He turned away, and sicked up all over the tiled floor.

It took him three tries to cast a successful cleaning charm, unable to let the stench of his own sick seep further into his clothes, his body almost too weak, his entire system in shock. He didn’t want to turn on the lights, out of fear it would attract his doppelganger, so he stumbled blindly over to the sink, leaning against the counter. His back was drenched in sweat, and his mouth felt like sandpaper. 

There was a bang from the living room and then a low murmuring, but while Harry stood completely still against the sink, nothing entered the kitchen. 

With shaking hands, he turned the tap, leaning down to lap at the streaming water. The coolness immediately refreshing, and he lapped it up like a man in the desert. 

As the pipes rattled—a grotesque gurgling—Harry continued to drink, unable to bring himself to stop, afraid he wouldn’t get another chance. 

It was then that the water changed. 

It coated his mouth and throat in a tangy iron, leaving him sputtering and coughing, a viscous liquid dribbling down his chin. He swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, clawing at his lips, as if that would change what he had just swallowed. 

The tap gurgled and spat, Harry scrambling frantically to turn it off, pipes rattling, on the brink of bursting. He turned it off violently, and the pipes slowed and stopped, steadying to a consistent drip. 

In fear of vomiting again, with the taste of blood still clinging to his mouth, Harry stumbled into the living room. His foot caught on the rug, and he fell to his knees, a sharp pain shooting through his wrists. 

“So clumsy, Harry,” someone whispered, and Harry scrambled onto his haunches, holding out his wand in front of him, licking his lips and cringing at the taste. 

There were four dark figures sitting in front of the television, and as he watched, their shadows turned, washing him in new fear as he felt their gazes boring into him.

His voice was harsh with fear when he spoke. “Who are you?” 

The same figure that had spoken shook their head, making a clucking noise. Harry squinted, trying to make out their features, worried that if he cast a light it would shock them into converging, break whatever strange peace had been found. 

“We’re your family,” the figure said, and they all moved forward as one. 

“Don’t come any closer,” Harry said, trying to put an ounce of authority into his voice. “I have a wand, I have magic.” 

“No you don’t,” a different figure with a deep voice said. “You’re completely normal.” 

“The fuck I am,” Harry seethed, pointing his wand threateningly. “Lumos!” 

Nothing happened. 

There was no light emanating from the tip of his wand, no illumination of the figures in front of him, not even a feeble glow. 

“Lumos!” he said again, as the figures came closer. “Lumos! Flipendo! Incendio!” He traced his wand through the air, focused on the magic, and pulled, to no avail. He searched inwards for the magical core that sustained him, only to find that it had vanished. The well of energy which provided his magic had run dry, emptied out to the bottom. 

“It doesn’t make sense…” he whispered, his whole body shaking. “Magic doesn’t just disappear.” 

“Oh, Harry,” one of the figures said, now directly in front of him. In the dim light, he could just make out the curl of her black hair, the sharp structure of her cheekbones, the length of her neck. She reached out a papery hand, and gripped his shoulder so tightly that her nails dug into his skin. “It was never there.” 

With a crack, the fireplace roared to life, illuminating the faces of the people in front of him. Their eyes were voids, bottomless black pits from which blood streamed forth, streaking their cheeks and dribbling down their chins. 

Harry couldn’t stop himself from vibrating, the smell of fear pungent, leaking from every pour, coursing through his veins. 

Aunt Petunia’s expression fell slowly, as if it were being carved into wax, her eyebrows furrowing, mouth pulled into a pouting grotesque line that stood out against her pallidness, and the thick tears of blood that pooled on her cheeks, collecting in her cupid's bow. 

Harry raised his hand, with the intention of casting a spell, only to find that his wand had vanished from his hands. 

Shaking, he tried to pull at his magic, tried to feel it well at his fingertips. He pictured his aunt bursting into flames, her body flaking and cindering, and flicked his fingers against his wrist, concentrating on the image. 

She burst into flames, her waxy visage melting, skin pulling downwards to reveal jawbones, glinting with a pearlescent sheen in the moonlit room. 

As she melted to the floor, she tried to keep speaking, but her voice was a garbled heap of sounds—grunts and the hiss of sparks—until her throat collapsed into itself. Droplets of flesh and wax splashed on the rug and settee, and then she was silent, melting away, as if she’d never existed in the first place. 

Harry’s uncle had turned a bright purple by the time Petunia was but a mangled puddle on the floor, and Harry cringed as spittle flew towards him, his uncle’s yelling so filled with rage that it didn’t sound like English. 

Dudley and the Harry clone stood behind Uncle Vernon, like two sides of the same coin. Dudley had a perfectly curved smile, while clone-Harry wore a perfect frown.

Harry clutched at his forearm to stop his hand from shaking, as Uncle Vernon stalked towards him, eye-less sockets squinting, eyebrows furrowed, causing more blood to drip down his cheeks. 

Harry flicked his wrist once Uncle Vernon got to the same place his aunt was standing, but unlike his aunt, he began to scream, a deep guttural sound, as he melted down, revealing flashes of red and white, skin melting and dripping away. 

Harry covered his ears with his hands and sank to the ground. The air was filled with the smell of burning candles and singed hair.

“This has to be a dream,” he muttered under his breath, as if repeating it to himself would somehow help. “I’m just in a bad dream, I need to wake up.” 

“You hadn’t figured that out already?” his clone asked snidely. 

“Well, we already knew he was an idiot,” Dudley chimed in. 

“Shut up,” Harry snarled at them, standing up and trying to regain his composure. “You’re not even real.” 

Clone-Harry began to laugh, and it sounded so much like Harry’s own laugh, but was filled with such coldness, that it sent him reeling all over again. 

“If I wasn’t real,” Clone-Harry began, suddenly appearing in front of Harry like a blip in reality. “Would I be able to do this?” And before Harry had a chance to move his wrist, to even think of how to defend himself, his clone had wrapped his hands around Harry’s neck, and began to squeeze. Harry scraped at his clone’s hands, tried to push him away, pull at his hair, use his magic, do something. But nothing seemed to work, because his clone just continued to squeeze. 

Dudley hustled over, using his meaty hands to clamp Harry’s arms to his sides. 

Harry looked into the empty sockets of his mirror image, watched his clone smile, running his tongue over his incisors, as he tightened his hold. Harry’s lungs began to scream for air, his chest constricting and throat burning, as he opened and closed his mouth like a fish stranded on a beach. 

As his vision began to tunnel, he stared into the depths of those darkened pits, flakes of skin and dried blood festered around the edges, and realised that the reason it was pried open was that two black balls of coal were shoved into his clone’s sockets, blood seeping from where the harsh edges were cutting into the sensitive surrounding skin. 

“Christmas present from the Dursleys,” Harry’s clone whispered as everything went dark.

-x- 

Harry woke up in the dark, a dampness sitting atop his skin, and the feeling that everything was closing in on him. 

He tried to stretch but could barely move an inch before hitting something—his feet on walls, hands on edges in the small ceiling. His fingers brushed against dust and what felt like spiderwebs. He recoiled as he felt spiders skittering across his arms and legs, and took a shallow breath, trying to calm down. 

It felt hard to breathe with so little space, the inane fear that he would run out of oxygen creeping into his mind. When he scavenged around for his wand on the floor, he couldn’t find it anywhere. No rolling of wood under his fingers. 

He felt at his center for his magic—still there—but when he tried to collect fire at his palm, or light the tip of his fingers, nothing happened. 

“Why?” he whispered to himself, voice trembling. He ran through his Auror training and every past case in his mind, every hostage scenario or incident where he was stranded without a wand. He took slow breaths, and felt the wood floor under his palms, trying to ground himself in the sensation. It was what they taught in training: feel your connection to the earth, imagine energy rushing up through you, bringing you back into yourself. 

But there was a difference between all the moments during his time as an Auror when he had to calm himself and this one: they had been real. 

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were in a retirement home, Dudley had moved out and gotten married. The type of magic it would have taken to kidnap him, transport him back to the house in Little Whinging, then somehow create replicas of himself and the Dursleys over a decade ago… No. And the blood in the sink! There was no way that was real, that wasn’t magic, that was just… That was like every horror movie he had watched with Draco, curled up on the couch, eating popcorn. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten, taking deep, even breaths. 

“This is a dream, this isn’t real. This is a dream, this isn’t real. You can wake up.” 

When he opened his eyes, it was still completely dark. 

He pushed up against the walls and ceiling, trying to make the dream room expand, dust and cobwebs falling into his hair and making him cough. 

He felt across the walls for something… anything… 

He hit his knuckles on a doorknob and grasped it firmly. It felt smooth and familiar under his palms, a doorknob he had turned a million times before. 

He was in the cupboard under the stairs. 

The door rattled, but didn’t budge open. Locked. He banged against it, pushing with all the force he could muster, and still, nothing happened. He could see a sliver of light through the crack in the door, and it only bolstered his desire to be free from the cupboard, the walls closing in on him, threatening to squeeze the life out of his body. 

His breaths came out in quick gasps, his chest constricting as what little his eyes could make out in the darkness began spiraling away, an even more resolute nothingness encroaching on the edges of his vision. He squeezed his eyes closed and clenched his fists. Harder and harder, half-moons stinging across his palm. He let the pain bring him back to himself. He was in his body, in a dream, and he had to endure it for now. He just had to focus on one thing after another, and then he would be free. He quickly released his fists, and then placed both palms on the door. 

He felt deep inside for his magical core, and imagined it as a ball of electricity at his center, powerful and hungry and alive. He wanted to be out of this dark space, out of this cupboard, out of this terrible nightmare, and he wanted out  _ now. _

Energy welled up in his center, spark growing larger, and he channeled every ounce into his hands. With a bang, the cupboard door flew off its hinges. 

Squinting into the light, Harry looked up into his own, charcoal eyes. 

“What do you want from me?” Harry asked from the floor, voice hoarse. The clone said nothing, just extended a hand, as if to help Harry up. “You’re mad if you think I’m taking that.” 

Unwinding himself painfully, Harry half crawled, half shuffled out of the cupboard, to stand up on his own. 

He stood facing his distorted self, blood trickling down pale cheeks where the coal was still cutting into its eyes, standing out like tear tracks on its pale skin. 

The smell of rotting flesh hit Harry’s nose, and he felt a wave of nausea wash over him. 

“Why did they do this to you?” he asked. His clone put a finger to its lips, and tilted its head, moving away and beckoning for Harry to follow.

There seemed nothing for it, so Harry followed his younger self through the house. It was still dark outside and the house was silent once more, with the Dursleys nowhere to be seen. 

They walked through the dining room and the kitchen, where any signs of the gushing blood had vanished.

His clone led him to the back garden, where they stood for a moment, taking in the night air. It felt like a warm summer evening, a slight breeze gentle on their skin, the edge of infinite possibility sweet in the air. 

“What are we doing out here?” Harry asked, turning to his clone. It smiled in response, a closed-lip grin that stretched unnaturally across its face. “Why aren’t you talking?”

The clone tilted its head back, motioning to its neck, where it wore a necklace of purple and blue. 

“Is that—” 

His younger self nodded, reaching out a hand to brush Harry’s own neck. Harry pushed into the sensitive skin of his own neck. They stood connected by abuse, mottled skin 

His clone reached out and took his hand, pulling him farther into the garden, towards the tool shed. Harry sniffed the air. The smell of rotting flesh seemed to have gotten stronger, but then the breeze shifted directions, and he lost the scent. 

The grass was damp under his bare feet and tickled his ankles, making them itch.

“What?” Harry asked, as they stood in front of it. His clone inclined his head towards it, motioning for Harry to open the door. 

“I don’t trust you,” Harry sighed, looking back at the door. The shed seemed to loom ominously, despite the fact that Harry was nearly as tall as it. He gulped, preparing his magic for whatever might greet him on the other side. 

Harry was wary of opening it at all, but he was also wary of not doing what his clone instructed. Right now that seemed like the safest option. 

He reached for the shed door and slowly pulled it open. 

A dim and flickering fluorescent lightbulb was the only thing that illuminated the interior: it was him, or rather, it was a lot of him. His dead bodies—clones—lay in heaps, piled over one another as if just thrown in like a bag of sand. The bodies were naked, and each one seemed malnourished, ribs visible through the discoloured and dead skin, legs and arms barely thin sticks. 

Some bodies seemed to have only been killed hours before, blood coagulating to form dark pools under the skin, the muscles frozen stiff. Others were limp, skin sagging with blisters, flakes of it covering the floor where other bodies had landed on them. 

Harry turned to the side of the shed and vomited among the grass, nothing but bile coming out, coating his mouth with the disgusting tang of stomach acid. 

“What the fuck,” he moaned, looking up through the haze at the one living clone, who was smiling so widely his lips had started to crack and bleed. “Did you do this?” 

A shake of the head,  _ no.  _

“Then what…” All of his cases as an Auror had never been like this. This much death and loss of life and that was  _ him _ . The smell was still clinging to the inside of his nose. 

As Harry stared on in horror, unsure of what one could even do when confronted with this, the Dursleys came out of the house. 

They walked slowly towards Harry and the doppelganger, Aunt Petunia returned to her candle-like form, Uncle Vernon and Dudley smiling grotesquely. 

Petunia came up behind the doppelganger, a large skillet clutched in her withered hands like a baseball bat. 

“What are you—?” Harry asked, but it was too late. 

She swung the skillet and it collided with the back of the clone’s head. He stumbled forward, and Petunia swung back, hitting him again. There was a loud crack, and the clone fell to the ground. She kept hitting him, repeatedly, crushing his skull with a terrifying crunch, blood and bits of brain splattering up Petunia’s arms, stark splotches against her pink dress. 

When she was finished, she straightened up, panting, and dropped the skillet next to what was left of the clone’s mangled skull. 

“Well,” she sniffed, wiping her hands on her skirt. “That’s finished.” 

“What have you done?” Harry asked in a whisper, standing there in shock. He didn’t even fight back when Uncle Vernon and Dudley wrapped their meaty hands around his arms, holding him in place.

“Why, only what had to be done,” Aunt Petunia answered, coming towards him. 

Harry half-heartedly tried to shake the two men off, but despite him being older, fitter, and skilled, they were still twice, if not three times, his weight class, and a painful glint of nostalgia told him fighting back would only make it worse. 

Aunt Petunia’s waxy smile returned as she stood in front of them, and Harry found a primal fear beginning to churn in his gut. His feeble attempts at escape grew stronger as he twisted in Uncle Vernon and Dudley’s ironclad grasp, trying to kick backwards at their shins. His fight or flight response was telling him to run,  _ now _ . 

As he struggled, Aunt Petunia’s hand shot out to cup his face, squeezing his cheeks in her bird-like grip. “You’re only going to make it harder on yourself,” she whispered, and the three of them pushed Harry to his knees, damp patches forming where he was pressed into the grass. 

“Keep still,” Aunt Petunia said, grabbing a fistful of hair to keep him in place. Harry continued to struggle in vain. He tried to grab at his magic, do anything to get them off him, but try as he might, no one flew across the yard or burst into flame. 

Aunt Petunia studied him, tilting her head to the side. Up close, her eyes were even more disgusting, skin hanging down into the empty sockets, dried blood on her cheeks. 

Her nail scratched his cheek as she circled a finger around his eyes. 

“Be still,” she whispered, and then a pain erupted in Harry worse than any headache Voldemort had ever given him.

Aunt Petunia curled two fingers around his right eyeball and pulled, unleashing a searing pain that seemed to light itself in every pore. He tried desperately to shut his eye or pull himself from the Dursley’s grip, but that just pushed her fingers farther in, and made him cry out. 

He screamed as she pulled, his brain feeling like it was being torn to pieces. He begged for her to stop, but she continued, until with a sickening pop, Harry’s eye came free. Through the haze with his other eye, he saw her drop the bloodied thing onto the grass. 

As she reached for his other eye, he screamed again, the sounds of a cornered and dying wild animal, hoarse and terrified. This time when she curled her fingers in, he was ready for the pain, and in a way that made it all the worse. It set an electric fire burning through his brain, and he bit down on the pain, feeling blood spurt from his tongue. 

Uncle Vernon and Dudley released him, as Harry heard the soft squelching of Aunt Petunia dropping his left eye into the grass. As Harry keeled over backwards, he felt he was looking up to the sky and should have seen stars, but everything was dark. 

Darkness turned to darkness, as Harry’s consciousness let go, bringing him into a sleep free of pain. 

-x- 

Harry woke up to nothingness. The world was lost to him. He touched his face, the pads of his fingers coming away wet. He could smell the blood coating his face. Gently, he touched where his eyes should have been. The softness of bandages, and as he pressed… Nothing. 

With almost complete apathy, Harry stumbled out of bed and put his arms in front of him, trying to feel his way to the window. 

He wrapped his hands around steel bars, reaching through them to open the window. 

A summer breeze brushed his face, every nerve in his body stretching towards the open air, begging to be let out, to feel anything. He imagined the trees to the left, the neighbour’s backyard to the right, the stars above, the moon. 

Stumbling back over to his bed, Harry held his breath, hoping, and snuck his hand under the pillow. His fingers brushed up against his wand, and he sighed with relief. 

Back at the window, he held his wand firmly, pointing it in the direction of the metal bars and imagining them vanishing into thin air. This time, when he reached out, he felt nothing, his hand falling through air. 

His body moved of its own accord, the flight response he had felt earlier still working its way through his system. He held tightly to the window frame and lifted a leg up and over the window sill. He slowly worked his way out, one piece of himself at a time, until he sat perched on the ledge, feet dangling below. 

If this was a dream—a nightmare—then jumping would solve it all, right? All he had to do was let himself go, let gravity do the work, and land on his neck or head so that it snapped. If he didn’t die, the Dursleys would probably bring him back to bed, and he would find a rope or a gun or  _ something _ . Maybe the killing curse could be used on himself. He had never really thought about it before, but if this didn’t work, that would be the next step. It would certainly be more painless, but he was here now, and gravity was calling his name. 

Harry had never seriously considered suicide before in his life. When Sirius had died, or things had gotten bad with Voldemort, he had thought maybe it would have been better if he’d never been born, or wished, abstractly, to not exist on the earth. But he had never actually thought out a plan of how to end his life, he had never thought that he should actually,  _ truly _ , kill himself. 

Draco had struggled slightly with feelings like that, depression, anxiety, self-harm. They had talked about it when they first started dating, when everything had been up for grabs, every piece of trauma, every vulnerability. They had spent nights together in Harry’s flat just airing out their dirty laundry, and to Harry’s surprise, it had been nice. It had been  _ nice  _ to apologise to Draco and hear the man apologise in return, to find all the ways the two of them had been similar all this time, without either of them knowing it. To comfort Draco when tears were finally shed, wrap his arms around the man and inhale his lemony, musky scent for the first time. 

Harry held out a hand, half expecting to feel the soft cashmere of Draco’s jumper, the curve of a biceps. He was met with nothingness. He felt the air move around his fingers, grasped at the darkness which was now all he had left. This was what he had to do to meet Draco again, to wake up in bed next to the man he loved. 

Gravity urged him forward, sending tingles of anticipation crawling over his body, so with a deep breath, Harry pushed himself from the windowsill and fell.

Though he couldn’t see it, the ground rushed up to meet him surprisingly fast. The fall was too short for him to pass out, and so when his head, arms, ribs, and hips collided with the ground, an earth-shattering pain spread through his entire body. 

Another spurt of blood rushed into his mouth as he bit off the end of his tongue, a crunching as his hip was smashed on impact, his neck twisting in a completely non-human way. 

He lay there, dazed, unsure what way he was orientated, unsure where he had landed. He could see nothing, only hear the blood rushing in his ears, the distant sound of crickets chirping in the night. 

He lay there in pain, no one rushing to save him, no one helping him up onto his broken limbs. He couldn’t move. He tried to lift his arm or leg, do anything, but his body lay completely still, paralyzed from the impact of the fall, or perhaps knowing that any movement would cause more pain than Harry was capable of withstanding. 

Unsure of how much time passed there in the dark, Harry felt his consciousness slowly slip away, and he was drawn under once more. 

-x- 

Wet grass. 

Slow, shuffling sounds, a stop-start of movement. 

Rustling trees. 

Low, guttural moans. 

Incoherent babbling. 

These were the sounds that welcomed Harry back into consciousness. He lifted his neck, able to move his head, trying to point his ears in the direction of the sounds, but found they were coming from multiple directions, drawing ever closer as he tried to pinpoint their location.

“Who?” He gurgled, so quiet he doubted whatever it was heard him. A wild animal? A stranger? 

The babbling continued, the English language strung together in an incorrigible pattern, like a child, vowels and consonants thrown together at random. 

“Who’s there?” Harry croaked, “I can’t see.” 

Clucking, maybe a tongue smacking against the roof of someone’s mouth, and the chattering of multiple sets of teeth. 

“I can’t see,” Harry responded, fear now coating every bit of him. He could smell his own sweat and blood. “Who are you?” 

Nothing. A movement, scrabbling against the ground, and something heavy slowly being dragged across the dirt. 

As whatever it was drew closer, all Harry could do was lay there broken, shivering at the oncoming danger.

“Please,” Harry murmured, as the chattering, clucking, and babbling got louder. “Please, I can’t see, whoever you are, whatever you are… Please.” 

It hit his nose in a burst: the pungent smell of rotting flesh, coating the inside of his nostrils and making his eyeless sockets tear up, dampening the bandages. 

As the knowledge of what was coming towards him hit, the fear overwhelmed him, it filled up every part of him, until he thought he was going to burst with the terror of it all. His bladder let go, and he began to join in the incoherent babbling. 

“Please, please, I’m you, please, go away. Leave me alone. I’m sorry, please!” 

He felt the first draft of warm, putrid breath on his face, making him choke and splutter. A hand slapped down on his ribs, and despite his blindness, white light exploded into the darkness with the pain. 

Hands began to rain down on him, slapping and pulling at his pyjamas. 

“Please,” Harry sobbed, “please stop.” 

Nails scratched at his skin, pulled at his broken legs, trying to grip at him and failing.

And then, the first mouth bit down on his sensitive flesh.

Harry cried out into the night, as he felt his skin be ripped off his body. Canines pierced his skin, molars chewing on him, breaking his already broken bones further, pulling him apart, tearing at him. 

He screamed as the clones from the shed continued to surge over him, come to life to eat him alive, sustenance from their original master. 

The pain was too much to handle, and Harry passed out. He began to pass out and wake up in a sick repetition, new chunks of him being torn out over and over, the sound of his clones slurping and gasping over his flesh, hands pushing into his sore and empty sockets, the dirty tang of his own skin being pushed into his mouth as clones tried to gain access to the fresh blood of his tongue. 

Towards the end, he thought he could feel his stomach being ripped open, his intestines unravelled like a fat chord of rope. Then again, he could have been imagining it, picturing in his mind’s eye his own naked bodies gyrating and climbing over one another, their shrivelled cocks brushing at his open wounds, blood covering their pale and sagging skin. Every time he breathed in, he thought he felt flakes of their dead bodies stick to the insides of his nose. 

Slowly, the blood loss began to steal him away, the pain too much to handle, the sensations too much to bear. 

He gurgled and spluttered until his final moments, and in the distance, he thought he heard the high, cold cackling of Aunt Petunia, but perhaps that was his imagination too. 


	2. Layer Two - Hogwarts

Draco sat at Harry’s bedside, watching nervously as the spells monitoring his pulse jumped sporadically. They had been climbing and falling drastically for the past few nights, and all Draco could do was sit and hold Harry’s hand, massaging his palm and stroking his hair, whispering encouragements into his ear, hoping that wherever Harry was, it was reaching him. 

Right now, Harry’s pulse had fallen to something resembling normality, and Draco was able to sit back and close his eyes. He had come to see Harry every moment he could, putting the shop sign to closed more than he should have. The apothecary would have to wait. 

He had tried brewing something a night or two ago, just to see if falling into the old routine would relax his nerves. 

He had ended up with smudges of smoke across his cheeks and a charred cauldron. 

Harry looked peaceful now. Draco glanced quickly around to make sure there were no medi-witches, and then leaned over, resting his head on Harry’s chest. He listened to his lover’s heartbeat, to the steady thrum of life. Harry would be okay, Harry was always okay. He would wake up soon, or they would find a cure, that’s how it had to be, because Draco couldn’t imagine a life without Harry Potter. 

_ Draco and Harry lay together in bed, fit snugly against one another, as if they were perfect puzzle pieces.  _

_ “I can hear your heart,” Draco whispered in the dark, and Harry pulled him closer.  _

_ “How does it sound?”  _

_ “Good,” Draco said. “It sounds good.”  _

_ “It’s saying I love you,” Harry laughed, running a hand through Draco’s hair. “Can you hear that?”  _

_ Draco was quiet, listening. Thump… thump… thump… Harry’s skin was warm, he smelled sweat, something a bit woodsy, a floral-ness from their laundry detergent, and that scent that was unique to Harry. The scent that—when Harry was away for an Auror mission for too long—had Draco bundling up one of Harry’s bed shirts and smothering his face in it, breathing in as deep as he could, letting the scent of Harry send tendrils of calm through his body.  _

_ He didn’t hear it so much as feel the love that Harry had for him, pronounced in every beat, every breath. Draco had spent so many years pining after Harry, his heart beating out a steady rhythm of desire, pulsing towards Harry every chance it got. Now they had come full circle, heartbeats synced in their wanting, breaths matched in passion.  _

_ “I hear it,” Draco whispered, craning his neck to see Harry’s face. His eyes were closed, but he smiled contentedly.  _

It was that night that Draco knew he and Harry had a future together. With his ear pressed to Harry’s chest, listening now, Draco squeezed his eyes shut to keep tears from falling. 

“I still hear it, Harry,” Draco whispered, voice cracking. “I still hear it.” 

-x- 

The first thing Harry did when he woke up was to touch his face. He felt the thin skin of his eyelids and then fluttered his eyes open. He blinked, rubbed at his face, and then fell back on the pillow to stare up at the familiar red canopy of the Gryffindor boys’ dormitory. 

It had been a nightmare. 

He shuffled about in bed, feeling his body for damages, making sure his arms and legs weren’t mysteriously broken. 

His sheets and pyjamas were damp with sweat, and he could still feel the ghost of hands clawing at his skin, eating him alive. 

He flung the covers off and rushed to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face and drinking desperately from the tap. Clear, cold water that never turned to blood. He wiped his glasses on his shirt and looked at himself in the mirror, prodding at his skin. He looked into his eyes for a long time, appreciating the different shades of green that flecked his irises, his long eyelashes. 

He took a shaky breath and returned to the dorms, where Ron was sitting on the edge of his mattress, stretching away the last bits of sleep. 

“Morning, mate,” Ron yawned, shuffling his feet into a pair of slippers. 

“Morning,” Harry said, voice coming out hoarse. He stood there, taking in the sight of Ron, his red hair, how normal and wonderful he was, with his freckled face and long gangly arms and legs.

“You alright?” Ron asked, giving him a funny look.

Harry shook his head. “Yeah I’m... yeah, I just had a really terrible nightmare.”

“Alright,” Ron said. “I need to shower, see you at breakfast?” 

Harry nodded, going over to his trunk and pulling out a set of casual clothes. It was the weekend, but he had a potions essay to write for Slughorn… For Snape… He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, feeling a headache beginning to build. 

“Hello, Harry,” Hermione said as Harry walked into the common room. She was sitting in front of the fire, stroking Crookshanks. 

“Hi Hermione, sleep well?” 

“Oh fine, thanks. How about you?” 

“Not so well,” Harry winced. “I had a terrible nightmare.” 

“Was it about You-Know-Who?” Hermione asked, eyebrows raising with worry. 

Harry waved a hand as Hermione pushed Crookshanks away, walking with Harry over to the portrait hole. “Nothing like that. It was actually… About the Dursleys…” 

“Oh, Harry,” she said, voice filling with concern, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

He pulled at the neck of his shirt, unsure how to respond to the obvious pity. 

“Oh—” She said in surprise, brushing a finger over his neck. “What happened?” 

“What?” He asked, frantically feeling his neck. He pressed down and winced, as a dull ache came to life in his neck.

“You look like you’ve been strangled.” 

“I—What?” Harry stopped by a suit of armour and tried to see his reflection in it, twisting his neck to try and find the bruises. “I didn’t see anything this morning.” 

“Here,” Hermione pointed out, tracing a circle around his neck. “They’re handprints.” 

Harry sucked in a breath, feeling a chill travel down his spine. “I was strangled in my dream last night.” 

“That’s concerning,” Hermione murmured, as they continued towards the Great Hall. 

A few students were trickling in, but they had woken up on the earlier side for a Sunday, so they mostly had the Gryffindor table to themselves. 

As he looked out across the Hall, Harry found that most faces were blurred out, with some familiar faces mixed in amongst the blobs of grey. He didn’t think anything of it. This was completely normal. It was Sunday. He was fifteen. It was the beginning of term. These were things he felt in his core which he knew to be true. 

“Eyeballs again,” Hermione sighed, poking them with her spoon. Harry looked down at his own bowl, a bundle of green eyes looking back up at him. His stomach roiled, but this was normal, this was fine. He scooped one up with his spoon, and like in slow motion, slowly put one in his mouth.

It was slimy and smooth, rolling around in his mouth like boba. 

He began to chew, and there was a slight crunch as he bit through the cornea, and then a meaty, fresh taste spurted into his mouth, almost like mild pork. He chewed, swished it around in his mouth, and swallowed. 

“Morning, Mione,” Ron said, sitting down across from them. “Eyeballs again?” 

“Yes, you’d think they’d give us something else after almost a week straight.” 

“Oh well, I don’t mind ‘em,” Ron said, already shovelling three into his mouth at once. 

Harry looked down at his own bowl of eyes, but suddenly he didn’t feel hungry at all. 

“I’m going to get a bit of fresh air,” he said, standing up abruptly. 

“Alright,” Ron said with his mouthful, and Harry caught a glimpse of a crushed iris. 

He hurried out of the Great Hall, nearly bumping into another faceless student on his way out, and hurried down the steps of the Entrance Hall to the grounds. 

Stepping into the sunlight, Harry took a deep breath, and tried to calm his racing heart. There was nothing to worry about. It was Sunday. He was fifteen. It was the beginning of term. He repeated those three things to himself like a mantra as he walked towards the Great Lake. He stood at the edge of the water, peering out across the expanse. The Giant Squid raised a tentacle, and Harry waved, smiling to himself. The air was crisp with Autumn, and Harry let the calm settle over him as he turned to head back to the Common Room and start on his potions essay. 

When he was almost at the steps, he glanced to his right, and felt his stomach drop. 

“Who wants me to steal Snivellus’ knickers?” His father laughed cruelly, his mother stomping away in the opposite direction. 

Students crowded around, laughing, as young Snape tried in vain to pull his robes up over his dirty granny-panties. 

“Do it!” Sirius whooped, jumping up and down in glee.

Harry ran over, pushing through the small crowd of students, and grabbed his father’s shoulder.

“Stop it,” Harry said angrily. “What are you doing?” 

James sneered in Harry’s face, pushing him backwards roughly. “I’m having fun, what does it look like I’m doing?” 

“You’re bullying him.” Heary deadpanned. 

James laughed, and the sound of it sent fear shooting down to Harry’s toes. It was void of compassion, of empathy. It was cold, ruthless, like a carnivore hunting its prey, with no concept of the suffering and death it was about to inflict. “I’m not  _ bullying _ him,” James said, gasping for breath through the tears, as if the concept was just that hilarious. He turned to where Snape had fallen to the ground. “We’re just playing, aren’t we Snivellus?” 

Snape glared up from under a mop of greasy hair, and despite standing up for him, Harry felt himself recoil. 

“See,” Sirius said, coming forward with glee. “Even you think he’s disgusting!” 

“I don’t!” Harry spat. “He’s just a kid.” 

“And what are you? A professor?” Sirius chided. “I didn’t think so.” 

“Who are you, anyway?” James asked, turning to give Harry his full attention. 

“I’m—” Harry began. “Don’t I remind you of anyone?” 

James looked Harry up and down, the faceless gaggle of students tightening their circle, blocking out Snape completely. Remus was behind him, clutching the straps of his book bag and looking down at the floor. Peter was behind Sirius, a twisted look of excitement contorting his squashed features. 

“You remind me of a ponce,” James said. “You have the face of a prick, I bet you like taking it up the arse.” 

“I don’t—I mean—That doesn’t have anything to do with anything,” Harry said hotly, throwing up his hands. “I’m your son!” 

James let out a bark of laughter. “My son? I’m a student, I don’t have a child.” 

“I’m from the future,” Harry seethed. “I’m the child of you and Lily.” 

James raised an eyebrow. “Lily and I? So we get together in the future?” 

“Yes,” Harry spat. “But I don’t see how, when you’re so horrible.” 

“Oh come now,” James said, sticking his wand under Harry’s chin, using it to tilt his face up so they were staring into each other's eyes. James’ dark and calculating, Harry’s livid. “I’m a catch.”

“You’re despicable,” Harry said. “You’re nothing but a bully. I always wondered what my parents were like, and dreamed of meeting them, of their love.” Harry laughed, a broken sound. “I was  _ so _ wrong.” 

James frowned, a flash of anger flickering across his face. 

“Who wants to see me mess up this psycho?” James laughed, pressing his wand into Harry’s throat. 

The faceless students hollered, and Sirius cackled. 

“Show him who’s boss,” Peter squeaked, clapping his hands. 

James pushed his glasses up his nose and ran a hand through his hair. He flashed a smile at someone in the crowd, and then stepped away. Harry pulled out his own wand. 

“Levicorpus,” James shouted. Harry ducked out of the way. 

James began to send spell after spell at Harry, who paried and ducked with ease, as if his muscles knew instinctively how to behave. 

When both he and his father were panting for breath, James stalked towards him, lips sealed tight. 

“Fine,” James huffed. “We’ll do this the old fashioned way.” 

Harry pointed his wand to push his father back, but then James smiled, soft and loving. Harry faltered, taken aback by the sight of what his father could be, and then someone was snapping his wand in half and pushing him to the ground. 

Sirius moved around him, holding him to the ground, as James began to pummel him, raining down punches harder than even Dudley had dared in the past. Every time James’ fist connected with Harry’s face, there was a sick crunch of cartilage, and Harry felt his heart break a little more. The only thing stopping his composure from shattering into pieces was that his mother wasn’t here to see this. She could still be good, right? His mother who had sacrificed her life to save him, giving him the love and protection he had needed to survive Voldemort and become the man—boy—he was. 

“Fuck. You. Harry.” James said, and for a moment, Harry was able to wonder how his father knew his name, before the world went black. 

-x- 

He woke up in the dark, staring up at a cloudy night sky. He winced, turning onto his side, and coughed up a splatter of blood. He swiped at his nose, and his hand came away streaked with red. 

Gingerly, he reached up, and felt the bridge of his nose. Broken. He prodded under his eyes. Bruised. 

He got unsteadily to his feet, wincing again as a pounding began in his head, his entire body aching. 

He looked around, trying to orient himself, and saw a hunched figure hurrying towards the Whomping Willow. They pressed the knot at the trunk, and snuck into the secret passage.

Snape.

Snape was going to the Shrieking Shack.

Harry began to run towards the willow, hissing every time his feet hit the ground and sent shocks of pain into his head and nose. 

This was the part where James ran into the Whomping Willow to drag Snape back. But where was he? 

As Harry was about to dodge past one of the oncoming branches, someone grabbed his shirt from behind, pulling him back. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” James asked, throwing Harry to the ground, his breath leaving him with a woof. “Everything is going according to plan.” 

“What plan?” Harry shouted, unable to control the tremor in his voice. “For your best friend to murder Snape?” 

James scoffed, pressing his foot into Harry’s chest and grinding in his heel. “Snape is nothing.” 

“And Remus?” Harry asked. “He’s going to have to live with the trauma of murdering someone for the rest of his life. He’ll never be the same!” 

James shrugged, his face void of emotion. “It’ll be fine,” he said. “Funny even.” 

“It’s not funny!” Harry yelled. “Sirius and Remus will never talk again! Sirius and Remus in their own ways will be traumatized for life! And Snape will be dead!” 

James leaned down, foot still pressing heavily into Harry’s chest, making it hard to take in a full breath. 

“Look me in the eyes,” James said, frowning when Harry turned away. James grabbed Harry by the chin, pushing his fingers into Harry’s bruised cheeks. 

_ A waxy woman with a dripping smile, harsh nails, searing pain.  _

Harry blinked through the flash of a memory he didn’t recognize, and then met James’ gaze, Harry’s anger palpable as he squeezed his fists shut. 

“Listen closely,” James said, voice quiet and threatening. “I don’t care about Snape. He’s a poor, dirty little bastard half-blood. He’s not worth the dirt on the sole of my boots. If anything, he deserves to die. You know why? Because he’s trying to keep me from fucking your mother, that’s why. That bitch is bloody hot, and I could use a good shag.”

Harry dug his nails into his palm, trying desperately to draw blood, anything to distract him from the words coming out of James’ mouth. 

“Now Remus and Sirius?” James said, lips quirking, taking the time to squeeze Harry’s cheeks. “That’s a bit more of a shame, but they’re collateral damage, really. Sirius is rich, but he’s been essentially disowned since he’s a Gryffindor from a family of Slytherins, and Remus….” James shrugged. “Remus is a werewolf. He was going to murder someone eventually.” 

James let go abruptly, straightening up and lifting his foot so Harry could breath. He rolled over in the grass and squeezed his eyes shut. 

His father was dead. He couldn’t be here. It was Sunday. He was fifteen. It was the beginning of term. This was a hallucination, or a dream, or a curse. It was Sunday. He was fifteen. It was the beginning—

“Don’t be sad kid,” James said, kneeling down to rub soothing circles over Harry’s back. “Just go to sleep, and you can forget any of this ever happened.” 

Harry turned in surprise. “What?” 

And before he could understand what was happening, James was pulling back, and a rock was colliding with Harry’s head, and everything painful went away, leaving him in blissful sleep. 

-x- 

Harry shuffled into the library, regretfully finding that every table was already taken. It wasn’t until he was at the very back of the library, in a tiny alcove, that he even found someone with a spare chair. 

“This one taken?” Harry asked, feeling like what he was doing was both wrong and right at the same time. 

Draco Malfoy looked up from his parchment, glaring at Harry standing there with books in his arms. It seemed that Harry being in Draco’s proximity had him at a loss for words. After a moment, Harry just sat down uninvited, and began pulling homework out of his satchel at random. 

“What are you doing, Potter?” 

“Homework,” he responded casually, as if sitting down at the table of your nemesis was the most natural thing in the world.

But that was just the problem—Harry knew what things in his life were true. His name was Harry James Potter. It was now Thursday. He was fifteen. It was the beginning of term. But when he saw Draco in class, or they locked eyes across the dining hall, he didn’t know how he was supposed to feel. Something stirred in his chest that felt foreign and confusing. He wanted to be near to Draco, and he couldn’t fathom why. 

And that was another thing: Harry kept finding himself about to call Draco… Well, Draco. But wasn’t he supposed to be Malfoy? Every time the boy’s name came out of his mouth, he felt an onslaught of feelings he couldn’t decipher, things he wasn’t sure were true. 

Well, Draco was in front of him now, that much was certain, and he was going to make the best of it.

“Well, don’t distract me,” Draco sneered, turning back to his own essay. Harry thought that was very unfair, seeing as it was Draco who was doing almost all the distracting. He couldn’t stop looking at the way a few strands of hair were falling into his face, escaping the combed back look he favoured, the collar of his button up rumpled, lips puckered in concentration, grey eyes glittering.

How was Harry supposed to get any work done when someone so beautiful existed? 

He shook his head. That didn’t seem like a thought he would normally have. 

“You’re staring at me,” Draco deadpanned, bringing Harry into the present. 

“I—What?” 

Draco frowned, pale brows furrowing in a way that Harry could only describe as cute. Merlin. 

“I said,” Draco snapped. “That you’re staring at me. And it’s making me uncomfortable.” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbled, turning back to his essay. But not before he caught a flash of regret, or maybe pity, in Draco’s cold eyes. 

“You’re acting different,” Draco said, cocking his head to the side, running the feather of his quill over his lips. “You would never apologize normally.” 

“If you’re not careful I’ll take it back,” Harry replied, lips quirking.

Draco smirked in return, and then leaned back in his chair, balancing on the hind legs.

“You’re not so bad, Potter.” 

“I could say the same about you, Draco.” 

The moment the name left Harry’s lips, Draco’s face contorted into a strange mask of emotions, and the chair came forward with a startling thump. “I should go.” Draco grimaced, quickly shoving his quill and homework into his bag, crumpling pages in his haste.

“Why? I didn’t—Just because I used your first name?” 

Draco flinched. “I have to go, Potter.” He swiped all his books off the table into his bag, and quickly slinging it over his shoulder, turned a corner of a bookshelf and disappeared. 

Harry sat dumbstruck for a moment before feeling a strange and thrumming desire to follow. It was like a tug just below his navel, itching him to get out of his seat. 

He collected his things and pulled his bag over his shoulder, hurrying after Malfoy. He ignored the looks of those around him, blank faced heads turning as he wound his way through bookshelves and past tables. He reached for the door, and yet it never arrived, always stretching out of reach, warping and sliding away. 

The bump of his messenger bag against his hip was like the striking of a bell through his entire body. Every time he took a step forward, another blank face would slide farther away, and along with them they would take the door. Every time the sharp edges of his books collided with his hip bone, the church bell struck midnight and reverberated throughout his being. 

Walking and sliding away, walking and sliding away, blank faces upon blank faces and  _ ding-dong _ ….  _ Ding-dong _ ...

Desperation burned in Harry’s gut, his mind sinking and grasping for reason. He felt pulled towards Malfoy, but the door… And the people…. Anger flooded his veins, his blood boiling beneath his skin.

He curled his hands into fists, anger bubbling up to his throat. “Let me OUT!” He yelled, breath ragged. Every head snapped back with a disturbing twist of neck, scribbling at their parchments once more. The door to the hall slammed forward, so that Harry only had to take three steps, and he was turning the handle and stepping out. 

He stumbled over to a suit of armour, panting, trying to understand what had just happened. But like sand, it was slipping away through the edges of his mind, the memory of trying to claw towards the door fading away to be replaced with a fuzzy blankness. He had been sitting with Draco… And then he was standing in the hall. 

Shakily, he took out the Marauders Map from his bag, and crept behind the suit of armour, turning his back to the hall.

“I solemnly swear I am up to no good,” he whispered to the parchment, watching as a map of the school slowly unfurled before him. Squiggling lines of trees and lake, the straight ink pathways of corridors and classrooms, and of course, the soundless footsteps that collected across the map, hurrying and pacing, stopping and starting. He looked over the map until his eyes caught on a specific name. Standing in the sixth floor boy’s lavatory, the feet of Draco Malfoy stood still. 

Harry stuffed the map away and made his way there, ignoring the blank faces that surged around him, not thinking about the way they were all turned towards him, how when he made his way through a crowd everyone stood still and turned to stare at him, the shadowed dents where their eyes should have been somehow still making goose pimples rise on Harry’s arms. 

Outside Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, Harry took a deep breath, unsure of what was going to greet him on the other side. What was Draco doing here alone, what could he possibly need of Myrtle? Harry felt another chill sweep over him. Every hair on his body seemed to be standing up, and a sense of foreboding trickled down his back, like someone had taken a spoonful of ice and gently slid it under his jumper. 

Harry toed the door open, and it swung inwards on creaking hinges. 

“It’s alright,” he heard Moaning Myrtle say in her familiarly nasal voice. “You’ll be fine, you can do this.” 

“I can’t!” Someone sniffled—Harry realised belatedly it was Draco, and wondered if he had ever in his life heard Draco cry—a strange pang shot through his chest. His first instinct was to go forward and comfort Draco, yet that didn’t make any sense. At the same time, his hand twitched at his side, and he pulled out his wand. 

“He has no idea what’s going on!” 

“I’m sure he does!” Myrtle said, sounding more cheery than before. “He’s just confused, but I’m sure he does, he just isn’t saying it outloud.” 

Harry crept forward, and there was Draco, standing in front of the sink looking much, much older. His reflection in the mirror had his hair soft and falling around his face instead of slicked back, and there were crinkles at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth, his features hardened and sharp, any remnants of his youth forgotten. He wasn’t wearing his school robes anymore, and his messenger bag had been tossed aside. Instead, he had on a white button down and his uniform slacks, the shirt open at the top, revealing the first swaths of pale chest. 

Harry stood there in shock, trying to remember how Draco had looked in the library—fifteen and so full of himself—in contrast with the Draco that now stood before him, Myrtle floating over his shoulder. 

_ It was Sunday. He was fifteen. It was the beginning of term.  _

Harry saw his own face in the mirror over Draco’s shoulder—he looked both young and old, new and used—Draco’s face morphed into a mask of anger, shock layered carefully beneath. He turned around quickly, and suddenly he was young again, his face smoothing out, points becoming subtly more rounded, his face harrowed with worry instead of age. He ran a hand through his hair, and though it remained disheveled, it looked noticeably similar to how he kept it during Hogwarts. Myrtle disappeared in a puff of smoke, and Harry wondered if she had been there in the first place. 

“I know what you did Malfoy,” Harry said, but the words sounded foreign, even to his own ears. “You hexed her didn’t you.” 

_ It was Sunday. He was fifteen—He was sixteen. It was the beginning of term—It was the middle of term.  _

“I didn’t do what you think,” Draco whispered, voice hoarse. 

Harry stepped closer, the bathroom tiles squeaking under his trainers, his reflection warped in the grimy mirrors. 

“You gave that necklace to Katie Bell, you’re plotting something.” 

Draco shook his head, shuddering. “That’s not why I’m here.” 

“What?” 

“You wouldn’t understand, Potter,” Draco said, spitting out Harry’s name, and that was the most normal Harry had felt since he’d woken up. “We need to get out.”

“We?”

“You,” Draco snarled. 

Harry raised his wand. “You can’t leave Hogwarts, you need to talk to Dumbledore.” 

Draco laughed, high and frantic. “Dumbledore is dead, Potter.” 

A ringing exploded in Harry’s ears, the tolling of a church bell, the signal for repentance, an overwhelming cry of death. When he spoke, it was muffled by the bells, and sounded far away. 

“No, you’re lying. Dumbledore is alive. He’s just—he’s in his office.” 

Malfoy held up his wand. “Dumbledore is dead.” 

Harry’s wand hand was shaking. 

“You’re lying.” 

“I’m not,” Draco said, pointing his wand at Harry’s chest. “Let me help you understand.” 

Harry only had a moment to jump out of the way, before a spell came flying at him. 

“Expelliarmus,” he yelled, just missing Draco as he turned a corner, the spell hitting a pipe and sending a spray of water down around them, slicking the tiles. 

Harry crept forward, the air vibrating with tension. He strained to try and hear Draco, but the sounds of the lavatory overwhelmed him, the hissing of water, the rattling of pipes, the creaking of the castle around them. 

He bent down to look under the stalls, and another spell came flying at him, Draco scrambling out and to the door. 

Harry ran after him as they both flung spells back and forth. He couldn’t let Draco leave. He couldn’t let him escape. He needed to ask him what he had meant. 

“Sectumsempra!” Harry yelled, the tendrils of a red curse flying from his wand and slashing across Draco’s chest. The boy fell to the tiled floor, cuts rushing across every inch of skin, pale skin breaking open and weeping. 

“Wait—” Harry moaned, rushing forward and falling at Draco’s side, a creeping sense of deja-vu running up the curves of his spine. “Wait, I didn’t mean for it to happen like this.” 

He clumsily pressed his hands to the wounds, trying and failing to keep the blood in.

Harry called for help, but no one answered, and more blood was pooling around Draco’s prone form, coating Harry’s hands in red, slinking towards the drain. Draco’s breath came out in shuddering gasps, his body convulsing, Harry trying desperately to call to mind healing spells and failing. 

In the background, Myrtle was wailing, flying into the halls and shouting about murder in the bathrooms, but Harry barely registered what was happening, and when someone without a face tried to pry him away from Draco, he lashed out with his wand, pushing the gathering crowd backwards.

“Don’t touch him!” Harry shrieked, standing protectively above Draco’s body. His breathing had stopped, his face returning to his older form, and he was white with blood-loss. “Step back!” 

A familiar voice came from the lavatory door. “Harry?” 

Wand raised, Harry turned and found Hermione and Ron standing there, horror painted on their faces at Draco’s dead body. 

“Harry did you—” Ron started, looking nauseous. “Did you kill Malfoy?” 

Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth.

“No! I mean I did, but I didn’t mean to,” Harry crouched down, laying a protective hand on Draco’s forehead. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this!” 

“Harry, how could you?” Hermione gasped. “How could you?” 

Anger wound its way through him. He hadn’t killed Draco, it had been an accident. It was Draco’s fault for attacking him first, and no one had come to help, so it really wasn’t his fault. 

The blood that filled the grooves of the tiles and which spread like finger paint over Harry’s hands blinded him, red filling his vision until it was all he could feel and think. Rage at being stuck here, rage at the faceless who tried to hinder him, rage at Ron and Hermione for accusing him of something he would never do. 

It was Sunday. He was sixteen. And he was filled with rage. 

Volatile magic filled every pore of his being, and without a thought, without even trying, Harry lashed out, his magic boiling through him, desperate to escape. 

It was Sunday. He was thirty-six. And he was filled with rage.

There were screams, but Harry didn’t care, all he could see was red, and the image of Draco’s dead body. All he could feel was anger and pain, anger and pain, flowing through him in equal measure. Draco was dead and they thought he had killed him. 

He was filled with rage.

Magic caterwauled out of him, hurtling towards people, and Harry didn’t care who he hurt. He only knew that he was angry.

Something hot stung his cheeks, and in the aftermath, he would find that he’d been crying, but in the moment, he simply had one goal: avenge Draco. 

It was Dumbledore’s voice which brought Harry back, a withered hand on his shoulder that unclouded his vision and had him sinking to his knees. 

The faceless beings that had crowded around him had all fallen, no blood in sight, but their bodies noticeably lifeless. 

“You must calm down, Harry,” Dumbledore said calmly, patting his shoulder. “No good stems from anger.” 

“I—” Harry stuttered, looking around at the destruction, pipes gushing water, shattered pieces of mirrors scattered across the ground, doors hanging open at every stall, hinges snapped or coming loose. “I did this?”

“You did,” Dumbledore nodded, taking out his wand. It was familiar to Harry, although he thought maybe it shouldn’t be, with its petering knobs and discoloured wood. With a flick, nearly all the bodies vanished, leaving behind just Draco, Ron, and Hermione. 

Carefully, Dumbledore levitated over two limp bodies, one with blazing red hair and spatterings of freckles, the other with dark skin and long curly hair.

“No,” Harry whispered, reaching out a hand to Ron and Hermione, as if he could pull them into his lap and stroke their hair, make them come to life. 

“Yes, Harry,” Dumbledore sighed, laying Ron and Hermione down next to Draco. Blood stained the edges of their grey jumpers, their heads lolling to the side. It looked obscene—his two best friends laying in the pools of Draco’s blood—but he couldn’t bring himself to move them or close their eyes. “You did this, you let your anger get the best of you.”

“I didn’t—are they really—they’re—” He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t think. This was Ron and Hermione, his Ron and Hermione, , who always supported him. His first friends, his best friends, the people he cared about most in the entire world. And they were… 

They were…

“Do not fear,” Dumbledore said softly, turning him away from his friends and nemesis. “It’s all according to plan.” 

Harry looked up into the kind eyes of his old and wise headmaster, the man who had been guiding him and helping him… Who had left him at the whims of his aunt and uncle. Who had kept secrets from him for far too long. 

“What do you mean?” Harry whispered, watching the way Dumbledore’s eyes sparkled. Something he normally found comforting, but which now seemed to flicker dangerously. 

Dumbledore chuckled. “You see Harry,” he began, his hand on Harry’s shoulder gripping tightly, transitioning from reassuring to painful. The shock of what had transpired still had not registered in Harry’s mind. He felt as if he were floating outside his body, as if he wasn’t really there with Dumbledore, but far, far away. Somewhere his friends were still alive, where Draco was okay. “In dreams we enter a world of our own, we may swim in the deepest ocean, or fly over the highest cloud.” 

Harry’s hands had begun shaking at his sides.

“So you see, because you’re here with me, you’re still alright.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“All in good time, Harry.” 

Now his legs were shaking, threatening to collapse. His hands were agitated, like injured birds; his lip trembling. His stomach rolled harshly and he would have doubled over, if not for Dumbledore’s hand keeping him upright. 

“I’m afraid it’s why I must do this.” 

Harry barely had time to look back into Dumbledore’s eyes, before the tip of the elder wand was pressed to his forehead, the knuckles on Dumbledore’s withered hand turned white. His expression wasn’t sad so much as it was filled with pity, his jaw set, eyes hardened. 

“Avada kedavra.” 

In a flash of green, Harry’s world went black.  
  



	3. Layer Three - Grimmauld Place

Draco slammed the book down angrily, his cold tea sloshing over the side of the cup and dousing a pile of notes. He cursed vehemently as he pulled out his wand—just another setback in a long list of dead ends, false alarms, and research that was going absolutely bloody nowhere. 

He took the first few papers off the top of the note pile, now dried and as crisp as they had been before, and headed to the kitchen so he could make himself a new cup.

He read as he walked, gold, wire-framed reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He was wearing one of Harry’s Weasley jumpers and his own blue silk pyjama bottoms. There were dark circle bruises under his eyes, and his face held a notable pallor, even for a Malfoy. 

Draco glanced idly at the fridge—a note from Pansy was stuck underneath a heart-shaped magnet—but he ignored it in favour of putting water in the kettle and setting it to boil. He hadn’t always made tea this way, but after years of being with Harry, the peaceful enjoyment of mundane muggle appliances and routine had gotten the better of him. 

_ Draco!! Please eat and sleep darling, we’re worried about you! Will stop by later with dinner  _

_ -Pansy xx _

Draco leafed through his notes. All things he had read before. Yet there was a chance he had overlooked something, or that with new context, a clue would come to light. 

He skimmed over the parts about dream interpretation—or oneiromancy—that was a subset of Divination, and looked over the notes he’d made on his recent experiments with Dreamless Sleep but didn’t see anything he hadn’t considered before, before he got to his oldest but most compelling research: Legilimency. 

He had already tried to carefully open the doors to Harry’s mind while he had been sleeping, but the curse had obviously created some sort of block, an oily black mass that, no matter how much Draco struggled, he couldn’t seem to breakthrough. And he hadn’t wanted to try harder out of fear of disrupting the curse and setting off a chain of events that would just make everything worse. 

He needed a way to slip seamlessly into Harry’s nightmare without potentially breaking the walls and hurting him more.

He’d always thought of himself as someone who was skilled in Legilimency and Occlumency, he’d been forced to learn out of necessity, and well, that had been more than enough incentive. 

It had paid off in the end, the one good thing Voldemort and Bellatrix—and to an extent, Snape—had forced him into. He was the best at the Ministry, often pulled onto cases and floo called by St Mungo’s. 

Yet here he was, drinking tea in the kitchen, flipping through pages of useless information, while his husband was stuck in a perpetual nightmare in a hospital bed, twisting in his sweat-drenched sheets in agony.

And for all his practice and talents and trials, he had no idea how to help him. 

He sighed, leaning back to let the knobs of the cupboard dig into his back, as if he deserved the discomfort, and took a dismal sip of tea. 

Only to splash it down his front when the floo roared to life. 

“Pansy, please,” Draco began, waving his wand over his jumper and walked into the living room. But it wasn’t Pansy who stood on the worn throw rug. 

Hermione dusted soot from her mauve peacoat, her hair tied up in a bun, stray curls falling around her face. She seemed to have stepped straight out of work at the Ministry. 

Draco had been told he couldn’t come in because of “trauma.” As if that had stopped them from hiring him a week after the war to investigate the remaining Death Eater safe houses. As if that had stopped them from hiring Harry, Ron, and Hermione right out of Hogwarts, despite having gone through seven years of trauma—well, eighteen for Harry. 

“Draco,” she said, her voice even. And this was why his floo was locked for Pansy, but not Hermione. Because Hermione didn’t infuse her voice with pity, didn’t look at Draco like some broken toy that needed mending. What he needed was his husband back, and Hermione Jean Granger was just the witch to help him accomplish it. “You look…” 

“Bad,” he finished for her. “You can say it.” 

A small smile twitched at Hermione’s lips, but she quickly pulled them back into place. “You look bad, like you haven’t slept in ages, and’ve been surviving off tea and coffee alone.” 

Draco lifted his mug in mock cheers. “And you’re right.” 

“You need sleep,” she said, concern knitting her brows.

Draco pushed off from the counter to join her in the living room, throwing his notes down haphazardly. “I’m fine.” 

Hermione gave him a look that said he really wasn’t, but she didn’t press. Instead, she sat down on the armchair next to the sofa, and brought out her bag. It was fit with an extendable charm, and she began placing heavy tomes and notebooks onto the table. “It was difficult getting my hands on all these, most were restricted to high ranking Ministry officials, and the Archives don’t take lightly to borrowing.” 

“I appreciate it, Hermione, really.” 

“I know.” 

She slid a leatherbound notebook across the coffee table and Draco picked it up. The pages were yellowed with age, like a preservation charm had been put on them a little too late in life. Draco untied the chord keeping it together and flipped it open to a random entry. 

“What is all this?” Draco asked in wonder, trying and failing to keep his voice level. 

Hermione took one of the books off the table and held out a page to him, a portrait of a very severe looking witch staring out at him. 

“Cecily Pekkala, a witch from the late 17th and early 18th century who revolutionized Legilimency, and was then subsequently erased from public records.” 

“What?” 

“She was looking into… some controversial practices. How to break through the strongest Occlumency walls, get to the darkest, most hidden areas of someone’s mind, and more importantly how to get into someone’s mind without eye contact… even when they’re asleep.” She looked up and met Draco’s eyes, her normally warm brown ones now set with determination. 

“That’s impossible.” 

“Not according to Pekkala’s research. But obviously, it was highly dangerous. If that sort of information got into the wrong hands, then the balance of the entire wizarding world could be thrown off course. I mean imagine if Voldemort could have just gotten Pettigrew to go into Dumbledore or Harry’s mind while they were asleep at Hogwarts. It would have been all over.” 

“So you’re saying this Pekkala character found out how to enter sleeping minds and the Ministry covered it all up, by?”

Hermione’s expression soured. “By burning her at the stake.” 

Draco blanched, staring at Hermione incredulously. “You’ve got to be joking, no real witch was ever successfully burned.” 

“I assure you I’m not,” she sniffed, flipping a bit farther through the book she held. “This is a private text on her life that was compiled for the Unspeakable archives. I could be fired, or even locked up for treason, if  _ anyone _ found out I had taken this, let alone shown you.” 

Draco sat back, struck by the amount of risk that Hermione had put herself through to help Harry. He’d known Hermione, Ron, and Harry’s friendship ran deep, their ties burned under their skin by shared experience and circumstance, but to see Hermione actively putting her dream career and entire life on the line… “Thank you, Hermione. I mean it.” 

“You’re welcome, Draco. I can’t bear to see Harry like this and what it’s doing to you…” She wiped at her eyes surreptitiously. “Now, as I was saying, the Unspeakeables couldn’t let Pekkala continue her research and potentially risk her teaching others. The ministry had only been founded roughly fifteen years before her death, and so things were…” She waved a hand. “Things were a bit rough around the edges, and so they planted information here and there, made sure the right people were in the right place at the right time, had her wand go handily ‘missing,’ and resulted in Pekkala being one of the last witches ever persecuted in the United Kingdom.” 

Draco looked down at the journal with renewed wonder and awe. “That’s a lot to take in.” 

Hermione smiled weakly.

“Does the Ministry…” He tilted his head, trying to watch Hermione for any signs of how she was really feeling. “Has the Ministry ever used Pekkala’s research for their own gain?” 

“Never.” 

He leaned back, trying not to let the enormity of his relief show, and opened the journal to the first page, where a very thoughtful index had been sketched out. “So, where do we start?” 

-x-

Harry woke up with a crick in his neck and the hard arm of the couch digging into his shoulder. For a moment he lay there disoriented, someone had left a window flung open and rain was streaming in, white sheer curtains whipping against the howling winds, the pane rattling. 

He got up and shut the window, shivering at the cold droplets that pricked his skin. Standing up had made his head pound, and he had to lean against the cold glass as he waited for it to subside, breathing in and out slowly with his eyes closed. 

The windows continued to rattle, the house creaking and lurching, a soft thump coming from somewhere upstairs. Harry sighed and stretched, looking around in the dim light. He had fallen asleep on the sofa in the living room, the fire in the hearth nothing but ash now, and the book he’d been reading had fallen to the floor in a crumple of pages. 

Another thump came from the upstairs, and this time, Harry stopped to listen, staring up at the ceiling as if whatever it was would make the floor shake and crack. It came again, a soft sound, not something falling, but not instantly recognizable either. Like a person moving around. 

He stepped out into the hallway, and despite having lived at number 12 Grimmauld Place for the past six years, he still found a chill creeping up his spine at the way everything was washed in shadows, only revealing themselves when he was so close he could reach out and touch. 

He passed portraits and photos, each draped in black veils; the entry to the drawing-room and kitchen, equally dark and disagreeable, until he stood at the foot of the stairs. The top of the stairs was a questionable void, everything swallowed in all-consuming darkness. But when the thump came again, Harry steeled himself. He was an Auror, after all. 

He pulled out his wand, creeping up the stairs meticulously—near the bannister, near the wall, middle, middle-right, near the wall, tiptoes, heel, near the bannister—each foot placed to avoid Grimmauld’s notorious creaks. 

Harry dimmed his wand to a feeble shimmer on the landing, ears straining to pick out the telltale steps of an intruder, the rush of cold from a broken window. 

Another loud thump came from above, this time sounding like it was on the fourth floor. 

Harry stood outside of Sirius’ old bedroom, wand light shaking across the walls. 

With another resounding thump, there was no doubt that something was in Sirius’ bedroom. Harry clutched the doorknob, his palms clammy, and with a burst of adrenaline, flung the door open, Lumos brightened and a stunner on his tongue. 

_ Thump.  _

A thick, leather-bound book fell to the floor. A tiny blue figure stood in the empty space it left behind on the shelf. Harry only had a moment to stare in confusion, when a swarm of the creatures descended on him.

“Ow, fuck, get off,” Harry cursed, Doxies pulling at his hair and biting his ears. He swatted at them as he tried to back out through the door, firing off haphazard stunners, little bodies falling out of the sky. He slammed the door on Sirius’ bedroom, shutting all the Doxies inside before he turned around and slumped against the door, squeezing his eyes shut and sighing. 

A rush of cold air washed over Harry’s skin, like a bucket of ice water being dumped over his head, his eyes flew open. 

A translucent figure floated in front of him, creeping closer as he leaned against the door. It slowly began to take on shape, lines forming on the face, a slim face with a sharp jaw, shoulder-length black hair, unnaturally thin arms. 

Harry rubbed his eyes under his glasses, wisps of smoke curling off the figure and reaching towards him. Sluggishly, as if wading through water, Harry batted at one of the tendrils.

_ Leather, the sound of a motorcycle, crying, agony, suffering unlike any other, frigid cold, a kiss, a promise.  _

_ Harry. _

Abstract thoughts and flashes of memory rushed through him, things he had never seen nor experienced but was now being forced to see, private things that weren’t for him to know in the first place. 

And through it all, his name, like he was being called forward, pulled at. 

_ Harry. Harry. Harry.  _

He recoiled, pulling his arm back from the roaming tendrils. 

“Sirius?” He rasped. “Are you—” 

At the mention of his name, the ghost of Sirius Black developed fully, each line and dot and detail of his face exactly how Harry had remembered him, his grey eyes cold in the way they used to get when he was angry. 

Harry reached out tentatively, desperately wanting the memories he shouldn’t have been allowed to have, wanting that small piece of connection to his long dead godfather. 

“How are you here?” He asked, as he let the smoke curl around him. 

_ The cry of a wolf, the panting of a dog, snapping underbrush, rustling leaves, the heady scent of blood, the taste of it, the feel of it on his muzzle.  _

The smoke curled against Harry’s cheek, and he closed his eyes, leaning into it like a touch starved boy, like it was Sirius’ real hand cupping his face. 

_ Running alongside James through the forest, a moonlit clearing, watching James sleep, the way his hair fell across his face, jealousy, hot coals in his stomach, a flash of red hair, a tightness in his chest, the strong set of James’ face, his strong hands, James, James, James.  _

Harry flinched but kept his eyes closed, still leaning into the touch, but now his forehead creased, lip twitching. 

_ Harry, middle name James.  _

The soft feeling of being within Sirius’ memories turned cold and slimy, an inky tendril twisting around Harry’s conscience. 

_ James dead, the smell of ash and rubble, Harry looking so much like his father, Harry trying to be brave like his father, Harry not being enough, never enough, nothing can replace James, an anger that burns him alive every time he sees Harry, that he can never be James, that he will never be James, that he would trade Harry for James in a heartbeat. _

“No!” Harry lashed out at Sirius’ ghost, pulling away from the dark memories and slamming his head into the door. “No… That’s not how Sirius felt.” 

Sirius’ expression remained blank as he turned and floated down the hallway, Harry pushing off from the door numbly to follow, legs shaking. 

“Sirius...” 

But the semblance of the man that had once been was already floating farther into the darkness, his image slowly disappearing, until he phased through a wall and disappeared. 

“Wait, come back!” 

Harry hurried forward, stumbling through a darkness that felt thick and heavy, to fall into the room that Sirius had gone into. 

He scrambled up, his eyes adjusting to the darkness, and… 

A blond man stood in the center of the room, a ghostly light awash on his features, his hair shining like strands of gold, lines of his face sharp, eyes wide with fear. 

“Harry?” The man rushed forward, and how had Harry not realized who he was before, he could never forget that nose, those lips, those eyes, that everything. “Harry, is this really you?”

Draco gripped Harry’s shoulders so tight it felt his fingers would mold Harry’s skin like dough, leaving bursts of blueberry bruises along deep indents, but then Draco pulled Harry into a bone-crushing hug, his breath coming out in hiccups.

Harry stood there awkwardly, too confused to raise his arms or push Draco away.

“I was so worried about you,” Draco said, voice shaking. “I thought I would never see you again.” 

“I—” Harry finally pushed Draco backwards gently, so he could look him in the eyes. “What are you doing here? What’s going on?” 

Draco’s face crumpled. “I came to save you.” 

“Why would I need saving? And by you of all people.” 

“Harry, don’t you remember anything?” 

“No? Should I?” 

Harry looked around the room. It was big, with a double bed, and photos on the walls of himself and Draco doing various things, their arms around each other. Two bedside tables bookended the bed, filled with personal items, as if two people were sleeping here.

“Why does it look like we live together?” Harry asked, a tingling paranoia creeping up his spine. 

“Because we do?” Draco reached for Harry’s hand, but he stepped back and crossed his arms. “Harry, darling, why are you acting like you don’t know me?” 

“Because I fucking don’t.  _ Malfoy _ .” 

“Then let me help remind you.”

Draco stepped closer, until Harry’s back was pressed up against the wall. He could feel Draco’s warm breath on his face. He smelled like citrus and peppermint. 

“Do you want me to move away?” Draco whispered. 

And the thing was Harry didn’t. He liked the warmth, the closeness, he liked that it was something he wasn’t supposed to have—affection and love and romance belonged to other people—certainly not with someone like Draco, and certainly not when he was so confused. 

He had come into this room looking for someone (something?) and here was Draco, and maybe… Maybe this was what he was looking for. Maybe what he needed was for someone to take him into their arms and assure him everything would be okay. 

Maybe, just maybe, Draco Malfoy was everything Harry had ever been looking for. 

“I—I don’t want you to move.” 

Draco’s expression softened, his eyes deep pools of lust. He licked his lips, and Harry watched, enraptured.

“Do you want me to touch you?” Draco breathed, the words tickling Harry’s ear. 

He nodded, not trusting his voice to say the right thing. 

Draco slid one hand up Harry’s shirt, tracing delicate lines, making Harry shiver with pleasure. The other hand went above Harry’s shoulder, and his knee pushed between Harry’s legs, nudging them open and pushing against Harry’s growing erection. When Draco rolled his hips forward, Harry felt the man's own hard length against his thigh, and inhaled sharply. 

And then right next to Harry’s ear, sending a thrill of pleasure straight from his head to his toes. “Do you want me to kiss you?” 

His voice was so quiet he wasn’t sure Draco would even hear him. “Please.” 

Harry tangled his hands in Draco’s silky hair as their lips met, noses gently bumping, smiling into the kiss. It started gently, pressing into each other as if neither could truly get close enough, and then Draco began to explore, darting his tongue out to trace the line of Harry’s mouth, nibbling at Harry’s lower lip. When Harry moaned into it, Draco bit down harder, sucking Harry’s lip into his mouth. Harry closed his eyes and leaned in and tried to pull Draco even closer as the kiss deepened. Everything about the man in front of him felt like perfection. He ran a hand along Draco’s jaw, and the man shivered, so soft. 

So, so soft. 

Harry opened his eyes as Draco fell apart in his hands. 

He clawed at his mouth, tiny broken wings coating his tongue. He spat them out onto the ground as Draco transformed, body breaking down into mere flecks of skin, pinpricks of a man suspended in mid-air. 

And then each molecule transformed, each dot of what he’d once been morphing and elongating. Draco Malfoy became a whisper—the sussurating of tiny wings all brushing together, against each other in a language of its own. He became a universe. A million beings existing as one in chaos; he became a flurry of moths. 

Harry tried to reach for the door but he was too far away, and the moths surrounded him on all sides, paperwhite and with two circles of silver along their backs like a pair of eyes, they slid against his skin, crawled at his ears, into his nose, at his eyes. 

They were everywhere. His entire world became Draco’s moths: they were inside him, he was them, he coughed and spluttered, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, he swatted at them but they continued. For each moth that Harry crushed in his fist, another one took its place, crawling under his shirt and clinging to him like the brightest light. 

Harry scrambled for the wall, moths struggling and dying under his hands, crunching under his feet, their juice slicking his fingers and coating the ground. 

He grabbed for the doorknob, his hands slipping as moths pried at his lips, sticking under his glasses and dying on the lenses. 

He fell into the hallway, hard on his hip, but kept his eyes and mouth screwed tight, crawling on his forearms out into the hall and away from the moths. 

He curled up in a ball on the floor, the feeling of wings against his skin slowly fading away into nothing.

When he was finally able to open his eyes, all the moths had turned to ash.

-x- 

Harry stumbled into the bathroom, still feeling like Draco’s moths were all over him. He kept flinching, the ghosts of their legs and wings making him jump. He sighed as the cold water from the tap washed away the feeling of being suffocated by the moths. He splashed it over his arms and put some on the back of his neck, scrubbing and scrubbing, until every last speck of ash and memory was gone. Finally, he bent down at the sink and splashed water on his face, cleaning his glasses, rubbing at his eyes and pulling at his cheeks. He could still taste the bitterness on his tongue, mixed with the mint of Draco’s kiss. 

He ran some water through his unruly hair, and then straightened up, looking in the mirror to make sure no moths or ash remained. 

He blinked, moving closer to the mirror to get a better look. He blinked again, and again, unsure of what he was seeing. 

His reflection’s lips slowly pulled up into a toothless smile.

Harry was not smiling. 

He closed his eyes and counted to ten, taking deep, even breaths. When he opened them, his reflection had stopped smiling. For one brief moment, everything felt normal, until red started welling up in his reflection’s green eyes, and suddenly blood was streaming down his reflection’s cheeks.

Harry reached up to his own cheeks. They were dry. He was not crying blood. 

“Stop it, stop that.” 

His reflection wailed silently, the blood still pouring out, scrunching up their eyes as they bawled. 

“I said stop.” Harry gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles white. “I told you to stop, stop crying!” 

Suddenly, his reflection’s expression turned into a blank slate, all blood disappearing, yet he still had the uncanny feeling that this reflection was not truly his own. 

With a burst of un-human speed, his reflection’s hands burst forth from the mirror, the glass rippling around the elbows as if it were moving through water. It grabbed at Harry’s neck, wrapping its hands around him like a noose, and squeezing so tight he thought his neck might snap in half. 

Harry pulled at its hands, tried to get his wand out of his back pocket, do anything, but his reflection was lifting him off the ground, shaking him as it squeezed tighter. 

He gasped, struggling for breath and wheezing. His entire head felt like it was about to explode, a pressure building up unlike any he’d ever experienced. He gaped like a fish but no sound came out, just a hoarse scratching sound of his vocal cords trying to push against the hands around his throat. 

Every nerve ending in his neck felt like it was being twisted and crushed, arteries starting to tear, fragile threads snapping into oblivion. 

As he looked into his own, blank, eyes—darkness crowded into his vision, the pain nearly unbearable. 

The last thing Harry saw before blacking out was a single moth fluttering in front of his face, two silver eyes turned towards him, a sign, a symbol, something he should have known but had forgotten. 


	4. Layer Four - Muggle London

Draco sat by Harry’s bedside and clasped his lover’s hand. It felt dry and papery, his normally dark tan skin paler than Draco had ever seen it. Hermione stood by his side, her hand a reassuring weight on his shoulder. 

It had been two terrible months since Harry had been cursed. No one could fully know what he was experiencing on the inside except that he would often have to be put under a body bind jynx to keep him from thrashing and hurting himself in his sleep, and that every day a medi-witch would re-layer him with silencing spells, so his blood-curdling screams didn’t disturb the entire ward. 

“You can do this, Draco,” Hermione said, squeezing his shoulder. “The bed is ready.” 

“Okay,” he nodded, but didn’t let go of Harry’s hand. 

“Just like we practiced,” she tried to reassure him. “If you don’t resurface within twenty-four hours I’ll douse you in cold water to break the connection.” 

He shivered and finally tore his gaze away from Harry to look up at her. “What if that… Doesn’t work.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think it’s a bit late for that?” 

“Hermione.”

She huffed and squeezed his shoulder again. “We’ve practiced time and time again Draco, whether it was myself or you, a physical shock to the system always broke the connection between the Legilimens and the subject.” 

“You’re right,” Draco sighed, letting go of Harry’s hand reluctantly. Hermione patted his shoulder before stepping back as Draco stood up, heading over to a bed a few paces away from Harry’s that had been set up for him. He’d already changed into one of his favourite pairs of silk pyjamas, so he lay down on top of the sheets and turned to watch Harry, his profile just as striking in the clinical lights of St. Mungos as it was during the golden hour of the day, or framed by a sunset. He breathed in deeply, collecting all the stress and trauma of the last few months, all the unnecessary clutter that plagued the human mind. He breathed out and let all of it fade away, clearing his mind until it was a perfectly blank slate. 

With the planes of his mind like clear sheets of ice, he took another deep, fortifying breath. “I’m ready.” 

Hermione was sitting between the two of them with her hands folded neatly in her lap, but she betrayed her nerves by the paling of her knuckles. “Good luck, Draco.” 

Draco focused on Harry once more. Despite the dark circles under his eyes and the hollowed nature of his cheekbones, Draco could still see so clearly the man he had fallen in love with. He could not fail. He could not let Harry suffer through a nightmare for the rest of his life. And he could not live without the man in the adjacent bed, of that he was certain. 

He focused on his intent and the magic welling inside him, just waiting to be unleashed. He’d never been all that good at wandless magic, that was always Harry’s strong suit. Where Harry had unbridled, natural power, Draco had control, finesse, and the utilization of theory to enhance every spell. 

He lay on his side and had his hawthorne wand pointed at Harry. Even though for this spell, using a wand was almost pointless. 

Draco closed his eyes and spoke softly, using his words and wand to guide his magic into the world. “Profunda legilimency.” 

No matter how much he and Hermione had practiced, the spell still took him by surprise every time. The darkness behind his closed eyelids lit up in a blinding flash of blues. Each mind in a ten-foot radius of him suddenly sparkling with energy and magic, twinkling stars in the dark that represented their thoughts—their conscious and unconscious minds. 

Draco could no longer feel his body. 

He was a floating entity in a sea of black. When he looked down or behind, he didn’t see a light to represent his own mind. He felt nothing—no temperature, no pain—he was nothing. 

That was how Pekkala managed to bypass even the strongest of Legilimency walls. It was a matter of hiding one's own consciousness so that when you slipped past into another person’s mind, they didn’t even register you were entering. 

Draco floated forward in the great abyss, gliding towards an angry swirl of red light. Magic sparked and sputtered, hissing and spitting as Draco drew near. Fear and rage emanated from this mind in waves, pulsing across the darkness in warning. This was Harry.

Just like he had practiced with Hermione, Draco kept his mind empty of all thoughts. He spared no regret or sadness for his lover, spared no curiosity for the other lives sparkling in his view. He was less than a person, less than a thought, so faint that he didn’t register to the hysterical wards of Harry’s curse. Like the memory of a ghost, he pulled apart the woven tapestry of despair that made up Harry’s mind, and slowly slipped through the fraying threads.

-x- 

Harry breathed in the smell of lavender and fresh linens and sighed contentedly, snuggling deeper into the blankets. 

“Mmm, Draco,” He mumbled into his pillow, reaching out blindly for his lover. He connected with emptiness. “Draco?” 

Harry rolled over and opened his eyes. The room was bathed in darkness, the other side of the bed empty. He hummed in confusion and quickly pulled back the covers, slipping his feet into a pair of maroon slippers and shuffling out of the bedroom. 

“Draco?” He murmured. The house felt too silent, like a thick muzzle of quiet had been locked over it. “Draco, love?” 

He headed downstairs, stepping quietly. He felt a prickling of unease and flexed his hand, readying the magic pooled in his core, his entire body tensing for a fight. Harry had learned long ago never to doubt his instincts. 

He stepped into the front hallway and looked into the living room, but it was empty except for the light of the streetlamps outside, shining in through the window to coat the room in an ethereal glow. 

“Draco?” Harry called softly, stepping past the living room towards the kitchen. Here, everything was dark, and he fumbled on the wall for the light switch. He could barely even make out the counters or appliances in the darkness, but as he walked forward and tried to find the light, he stumbled as his foot bumped into something. 

“What—” The light flickered on with a metallic tinkling. “ _ No _ .” 

Harry fell to the ground next to Draco’s prone form. His silk pyjamas were cut and torn, blood dripping from deep, flayed gashes that crisscrossed all over him. 

“No, Draco.” Harry’s magic boiled under his skin, threatening to overwhelm him as he cradled Draco’s head in his lap, lifeless grey eyes staring unblinkingly at the ceiling. 

“How?” His voice broke on the question. “How did this happen?” 

Every particle of magic in Harry’s body was lit by his anger, a raging fire burning within him, making every hair on his body stand on end. 

“Whoever did this, come out,” Harry shouted. “Show yourself, you fucking coward!” 

He gently lay Draco’s head down and stood up, his legs coated in blood. When he stepped forward, it squelched out from his slippers and slicked between his toes. He looked down at his feet in a horror that felt as threatening as rage, his magic reaching a point beyond which he’d ever felt. The kettle and toaster began to rattle on the counter, the cupboard doors flinging open with harsh bangs, the glasses and plates clattering within, cracking and chipping on each other. 

A roar bubbled in his chest, crawling up his throat like a cornered animal. 

Until a familiar voice spoke from the dining room, soft yet cool. 

“Harry, it’s alright love, it’s alright,” Draco said, turning the corner from the dining room and coming into the kitchen to envelop Harry in a hug. “You’re okay, calm down, shh.” 

Harry wrapped his arms around Draco slowly, not sure if he should believe what he was seeing and feeling.

“Draco but you—but you were… ” 

“I’m here now, you’re going to be okay, I’m going to get you out of here.” 

“What?” 

“I’m here to save you, Harry.” 

At that, Harry pulled back, scrutinizing the man that stood before him. He glanced back at the body lying prone on the ground. 

“But you were dead.” 

Draco shook his head, blond hair falling over his face. He was wearing the same silk pyjamas as the Draco on the floor. “That’s not the real me.” 

With power still running through him, Harry pointed one finger at the body on the ground. “Revelio.” 

The body didn’t move or change at all. It remained Draco Malfoy, dead on the floor. 

“That’s not me,” the new Draco said. 

“How can I believe that?” Harry growled. 

“Because you have no other choice if you want to get out of here,” Draco responded, and the earnest determination in his eyes made Harry do a double-take, it was so familiar. 

Harry moved to stand in front of Draco’s body protectively, suddenly unsure of who to believe—whether or not he was making the right choice. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Draco’s expression was pinched, deep shadows of anxiety etched under his eyes. “You’re in a nightmare, Harry, and you need to wake up.” 

Harry shook his head. It was too easy for someone to say that, too easy for a dark wix to try and convince him of the fact only to manipulate him. 

“You’re an Auror, you were cursed during a raid and it sent you into a nightmare. You’ve been asleep in St. Mungo’s for two months already and your body is slowly edging closer towards death.” Draco walked forward and reached out a hand. Harry flinched as Draco gently caressed his cheek, the feeling reminding him of beating wings, Draco’s hands papery and disturbingly soft. “If you don’t let me help you, you’re going to die.” 

Harry stepped over the dead body on the floor so he could kneel down while still keeping the alive Draco in his sight. He gingerly closed the dead Draco’s eyes. 

“What do I do with him?” 

“We have to leave him.” 

Harry glared but straightened up. “Where are we going?” 

“Up.” 

Draco stepped over the dead version of himself and headed towards the stairs, passing the sealed up cupboard. Harry followed behind. When he reached the foot of the stairs he spared one last look backwards, but the dead Draco had already been swallowed by darkness.

“Why are we going up?”

“The attic,” Draco responded. “We have no time to waste, I only have twenty-four hours.” 

“Why only twenty-four?”

Draco turned to look at him when they got to the second floor, his dry smirk barely visible. “You really want me laying in one of those uncomfortable St. Mungo’s beds for longer than a day?” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “If you really are my Draco then you would stay no matter how long it took.” He softened his gaze as he continued to look at the blond man before him. “No one would be able to stop me from doing the same for you.” 

Draco reached up to run a hand through Harry’s untamed curls. “I know, love,” he whispered. “And I wish I could, but it’s more complicated than that.” 

“Then explain,” Harry grunted, callously pushing off Draco’s hand. Something sparked behind the man’s grey eyes, but he kept what he was feeling locked behind a blank expression. 

“There’s no time,” Draco snapped and turned on his heel to walk a few paces into the hallway. Harry was struck by how the silk pyjamas clung to Draco’s curves, he couldn’t help his gaze travelling downward, watching the fabric flow regally around his ankles. 

Draco knelt down, running his hands along the floorboards and reaching towards the cracks of doors. He made a curious hum and focused intently on a specific piece of wood. 

“What?” Harry asked, crouching down across from him.

“Just—” Draco made a few fluid movements with his hand above the floor, and then made a little ‘aha’ sound. The air above the floor wavered, rippling with tension, and Harry watched transfixed, as Draco plucked at the floorboard and produced a tiny red string pinched between his fingers. He pulled upwards, and the string grew longer, as if being pulled out of a pile of sand, Draco stood, and the string continued to reveal itself. Harry watched with rapt attention as the string grew longer, climbing up the walls and reaching out of the floor and doors, and… Draco yanked hard on the end of the string, but it didn’t budge. A line of red reached from floor to ceiling and was stuck in the door to the attic. “I suspected as much.” 

“What is all this?” Harry asked, reaching out and rubbing the piece of string between his thumb and forefinger. It felt warm to the touch and surprisingly soft. 

Draco nudged Harry forward so they stood just beneath the attic. “This is your curse, Harry.” He waved a wand that Harry hadn’t noticed before—the same hawthorne one he’d returned so long ago—and the attic door slowly creaked open, a ladder sliding down with an iron screech. 

The entire house was silent as they stared at the ladder. “I should go first,” Harry said. “I’m the Auror.” 

“And I’m the one who came to save you,” Draco said, crossing his arms. 

“If you die, you’ll be dead. If I die, there’s a chance I’m not. And I might be dead at the end of all this anyway, but you wouldn’t be.” 

“Are you trying to be heroic?” 

Harry glared. “I’m trying to be reasonable.” He sighed, posture softening. “I want to protect you.”

Draco opened his mouth to retort, but what was there to say? He uncrossed his arms and motioned for Harry to go on, 

It was a short climb, but as Harry neared the oppressive darkness above, an overwhelming smell assaulted his senses, washing over him with a sickening heat. 

“Bloody fuck—” he spat, turning away and looking down at Draco, who had already started wrinkling his nose. “What the hell is that?”

“It smells…” Draco shuddered. “It smells like rotting meat.” 

Harry followed the glowing path of the red thread into the darkness and squared his shoulders. “Well, I guess we have to keep going.” He hauled himself into the black. 

An incandescent lightbulb flickered on, creating an eerie glow throughout the room. Harry blinked at the sudden light. Standing in the middle of the room, one hand raised from pulling on the light cord, was Draco Malfoy. He looked sickly, his skin pale and loose, dark shadows under his eyes, hair limp, eyes vacant; he was wearing green flannel pyjama bottoms and a black shirt. Harry exhaled sharply—the red string was wound around this Draco’s wrist, so tight it seemed to be cutting off circulation, turning the tips of his fingers blue. 

Harry gaped. “Draco?” 

“Yes?” The one behind him asked, at that moment hauling himself into the attic. 

The Draco in front lowered his arm and stood there, staring at them both. The Draco beside Harry blanched when he saw his copy. “It’s me.” 

“No shit,” Harry whispered, his mind reeling to try and understand the conundrum. There was the Draco beside him, the silken Draco, and the Draco before him, the red string Draco. 

The smell of rotting meat up here was even more pungent, clinging to their nostrils and seemingly permeating every molecule of air in the room. Silken Draco waved his wand discreetly to try and clear the air, and Harry didn’t miss the way that Red Draco took a step forward and glared, nostrils flaring. 

“Who are you?” Silken Draco asked, pointing his wand at Red, who’s expression only got angrier. He didn’t respond. 

Draco yanked on the string, and Red hissed, stumbling forward. “The man beside you is not Draco,” Red said, voice low and raspy, as if he hadn’t used it in months. 

“What?” Harry asked. 

The Draco beside him grabbed Harry’s arm tightly, nails digging into his skin. “You just spoke Parsletongue.” 

“I did?” 

“You’re being conned, Harry, the Draco standing beside you was produced by your nightmare to  _ trick _ you.” Red Draco drew out the syllables, milky grey eyes flashing with anger. 

“Then what are you?”

“I’m the Draco from your consciousness,” he said, the last word barely more than a long drawn out hiss. “The one from memories. The one you fell in love with.” 

Harry didn’t see how this shell of a man could possibly be the Draco he’d fallen in love with, couldn’t seem to connect the two in his mind. He saw sunshine glinting off of white-blond hair, a sleek body bent over a polished broom, delicate fingers elegantly twirling a quill, and a smile that made Harry’s heart thrum. 

“Harry, you can’t listen to it, that’s obviously a creation by your nightmare.” Silken Draco tugged on the hem of Harry’s shirt. “The red strings lead to your nightmares.”

“He’s lying,” Red hissed. “He’s lying.” 

“Can you prove that?” 

Red nodded. “Come closer, Harry.” 

“What is it saying? Don’t do anything it says.” 

“It wants me to come closer.” 

“Don’t do that.” 

“I need to see what it is, maybe it killed Draco.”

“I’m Draco,” Draco said impatiently. 

“But the Draco of my memories.” 

“Harry, that—” 

Harry gently pushed silk pyjama Draco behind him and stepped forward, feeling for the well of magic inside him, like a glistening pit of light, bringing it to the forefront. 

“Show me who you are,” Harry hissed, still just barely able to tell that he was speaking Parseltongue. “Draco.” 

Red’s features twisted into a smile, and as Harry stepped up to him, the smile grew. 

It grew and grew, until this Draco’s cheeks were splitting, blood pooling at the corner of its lips, which stretched and burst with tiny cuts. It opened its mouth wide, jaw snapping and continuing past what should have been physically possible. Its eyes rolled back like snowballs, and the entire head burst, loose skin rippling and falling away to reveal the jaws of a large snake. 

Harry jumped back quickly, throwing up a wandless shield as the snake surged forward, black scales glinting in the dim light, it’s slate grey eyes ravenous and wide. 

“Fuck,” Draco said, adding his own shield charm to strengthen Harry’s as the snake slithered into a coiled pile on the ground, long body tensed to strike. 

This time, when the creature jumped at their shields, Harry hid behind Draco’s to use a slashing spell. It cut across the snake’s paler underbelly, but where he had expected thick red blood, moths crawled out of the wound, shaking their damp wings and taking to the air, clustering the shield and making it harder to see.

“We’re going to need to unravel the thread,” Draco said over the sound of susurrating wings. Harry held out both hands to widen their shield; a blue shimmering light. 

“How can we do that when it’s tied to its neck?” 

The shield vibrated as the snake collided with it, long black fangs attempting to break through, already dripping with venom. 

“I don’t know,” Draco said honestly. “If one of us dies here it’s not going to be good, but if we try and kill this thing, we might be drowned by moths.” 

Harry took a deep, steadying breath. “This is my dream, this is my mind, you can’t control  _ my  _ dreams.” 

“Harry—” 

When the creature lashed out for the third time, Harry shoved Draco behind him and dropped the shield. He pulled up every ounce of magic and willpower and sense of identity he could muster, and pushed it forward. “Immobulus!” 

Blue light connected with the snake midair, and for a brief second its scales were painted the colour of an oil slick, before it dropped to the ground in a heap. 

Harry rushed forward and grabbed the red string around its neck, fiddling with the knot and untying the knot. 

Draco came up beside him and jabbed the tip of his wand into the snake’s forehead. “Avada Kedavra!” 

The skin the beast had worn still lay discarded on the attic floor, a puddled mess of the man Harry loved. He turned away quickly, swallowing hard and winding the red string into a ball in his hands. 

“I don’t know if that worked, we need to find the rest of the curse, quickly.” 

They were only just closing the attic door when they heard a thump, followed by thrashing, from above. 

Harry grabbed Draco’s hand, pulling him down the hallway. “Where’s the rest of this nightmare going to be?” 

“I’m not sure, it could be hidden anywhere in the house.” 

“Well we need to find it. I thought that was why you were here.” 

“I’m here to  _ save _ you, I didn’t say I knew everything about your bloody brain.” 

They rushed down the stairs, the sounds above getting more frantic.

And there, just at the bottom of the stairs, was a door. It had a little golden keyhole, and had certainly not been there before. Harry shook his head, taking Draco’s hand to pull him towards the living room.

“Wait, Harry, this… I know it’s terrible, but we need to check here.” 

“No, I’m sorry, I can’t.” 

Draco cupped Harry’s cheek and Harry was taken aback by how beautiful Draco’s nose was. It was pointy and pale and absolutely wondrous. “Harry, it wasn’t there before. The nightmare must be inside.” 

Harry’s hands shook as they bent down to the cupboard. “I had it sealed up and painted over. I never wanted to see anything like it again.” He turned the golden doorknob and swung the door open just as there was a loud bang from above, the sound of the ladder falling harshly from the attic, and something then falling, slithering along the ground. Without thinking, Harry pulled Draco into the cupboard and shut the door. 

Instead of the suffocating darkness they’d both been expecting, they were crouched in front of a tangled ball of pulsing, glowing red, a scribble manifested in a ball of string. 

Draco reached out a hand, touching the string as if it were his lover, as if it were Harry. 

“This is the heart of the nightmare,” Draco whispered, muttering spells that Harry didn’t recognize, carefully plucking at certain threads and watching them fall back into place. 

Suddenly, they both stopped, holding their breath, as dust floated down from the rafters of the cupboard, something slowly bumped down the stairs. 

It slithered across the floor, a sound that made blood rush in Harry’s ears, as he recalled being in Nagini’s body as she wound through the Department of Mysteries. 

Draco waved his wand, quickly putting up a silencing charm. 

As they sat there working through the string, the slithering continued around the house. Occasionally there would be a bang and shattering of glass, a sharp hiss, the sound of snapping jaws. 

“It’s not responding properly to me,” Draco seethed, carefully pulling apart two strands of thread, only for them to fall back into place a moment later. After what felt like an eternity of being cramped under the cupboard, their bodies stiff and aching, shoulders tense, Draco only had three tiny loops of string curled in front of him. “You need to try, Harry.” 

So Harry sat in front of the strands and slowly worked his way through them, following leads and basking in the warm glow of fear, picking apart the curse’s net that had settled into his mind unknowingly. 

“It’s strange, I don’t even remember my other nightmares,” he mused while working. “I just remember feeling… Alone, and terrified. Lots of darkness.” 

Draco hummed, knees pulled up to his chest, watching Harry idly. 

The ball was now no bigger than Harry’s fist, and he continued to work, pulling and separating and sifting. Until he finally reached the end—or the beginning—but instead of dimming, or disappearing, or doing whatever they had expected the heart of Harry’s nightmare to do, the other end of the thread sprang to life and shot out under the cupboard door. Harry pinched the end of the string quickly, tying it around his wrist. It took only a moment for it to pull taut. 

“Now what?” Harry growled, pulling experimentally. 

Draco worried his lip, running a hand through his hair. “There must be one last thing we need to unwind. I don’t know.” 

Harry grimaced, and there was a crash from somewhere in the kitchen.

Draco placed a hand on Harry’s knee. “I’m going to distract the snake, you go follow this string.” 

“No, we need to stay together.” 

Draco just smiled and squeezed. “We can’t. The moment we leave this cupboard, odds are it’ll lunge after us.” 

“What if you get hurt?”

“Then I’ll heal myself.” 

Harry wanted to argue, to stand by Draco’s side and fight with him. There was no Fawkes, no sword of Gryffindor, but when Harry looked into his lover’s eyes, there was a steely resolve. Harry knew this look. He wouldn’t be able to convince Draco no matter how hard he tried. “Fine, okay.” 

They slowly pushed open the cupboard door, the silencing charm starting to stretch and crack as they broke out of its confines. 

“Ready?” Draco whispered. Harry nodded, glancing down the hallway where the string travelled through the kitchen. 

They rushed the beast as one, Harry shielding himself and Draco lashing out with stunners, voice loud and clear. The body on the floor was gone, and Harry felt a twinge of guilt that he hadn't moved it, hadn't given that Draco a proper goodbye. 

" _ Go _ , Harry," Draco yelled. So Harry slipped out the back door and left his husband behind.

The moon was bright and full, but most stars were hidden by a smattering of cloud coverage. The night air was cool on his face, and Harry stared forward to where the string led.

“Who are you?” the boy asked, a slight tremor in his voice, and Harry’s stomach roiled. “What’s this string?” The boy held up his hand, where a red string was tied around his wrist. “It tied itself around my wrist and now it won’t go away.” 

Harry knelt in front of the boy, wanting to put a hand on his hair, or his shoulder, or anything, but not wanting to break the strange calm that had settled over the night, the terror of the house feeling far behind.

“I’m the older version of you.” 

“Alright,” little eleven-year-old Harry said. “That makes sense, we have the same scar.” 

“Do you…” Harry faltered. “Do you know how to leave this place?” 

Little Harry nodded. “We have to die.” 

“Why?” Harry asked, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. 

“Because you killed Voldemort. You need to suffer a hundredfold in return.” 

“So this was all some fanatic?” Harry asked angrily. “Some lunatic wannabe Death Eater taking out his anger at me?” 

Little Harry flinched back, an arm going up to shield his face. When he realised that Harry wasn’t going to hurt him, he lowered it sheepishly, and Harry felt a stirring of pain in his chest, his heart constricting.

“Do we have to…” He didn’t want to say these words to his younger self, didn’t want to add even more nuance to the suffering he’d gone through as a child. “Do we have to kill ourselves?” 

Little Harry shook his head. “Someone else has to do it.” 

“Who?” 

Little Harry pointed over Harry’s shoulder.

Silhouetted by light from the kitchen, Draco in silk pyjamas stood drenched in blood.

“Do you know how to leave?” Draco asked, coming up to Harry and breathing heavily, looking down forlornly at Harry’s eleven-year-old self. 

“You have to kill us,” Harry whispered. “You have to kill my present and my past.” 

Draco breathed out shakily. “I can’t—I can’t do that.” 

“You have to.” 

“What happens to me? Do I get stuck here forever?” 

Little Harry shook his head, his hair flopping into his eyes, oversized glasses sliding down his nose. “No, once we die, the nightmare collapses. Our fears are what hold it up.” 

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is all a dream, I’m not actually hurting you,” he said more to himself than to Harry. 

Harry nodded, looking down at the string around his wrist. He pressed it into his pulse point, feeling his heartbeat, and realised that the glow of the string was pulsing in time with his heart. 

“I don’t want to make your younger self watch you die, but I don’t want you to watch me kill you either.” 

“Kill him first,” Harry whispered, finally reaching out and pulling his younger self into a hug, the boy burying his face into Harry’s chest, little hands gripping Harry’s shirt. Had he really been this small? Had he really been this vulnerable? 

Draco pointed his wand at the back of the boy's head, lip trembling. “Avada Kedavra.” 

The boy went limp in Harry’s arms. Draco moved his wand slightly, and Harry looked up into his lover's face. 

“I’ll make it quick.” 

“Alright, but Draco?” 

“Yes?” 

“I thought the snake didn’t bleed?” 

-x- 

**Three Months Later**

Harry and Draco walked up the drive to their house, a quaint red brick home nestled on a residential muggle street in Highgate. It was a clear, sunny day, and Harry walked slowly, arm linked with Draco’s for support, his head held high.

“Don’t try and pretend you’re okay,” Draco huffed, taking Harry’s elbow and helping him up the steps. “You were in a hospital bed for two months.”

“I’m fine, really,” Harry replied. He tried to smile, but it felt strange, and he quickly let it drop. 

Draco turned, sliding the key into the lock, and opened the door.

“After you,” he said, smiling encouragingly, and brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. 

Just as Harry was turning to enter the house, a pale white moth fluttered towards Draco and landed on his shoulder.   
  


**Author's Note:**

> Now that reveals have finally happened, if you liked my fic, consider reblogging my claim post on tumblr: [here!](https://triggerlil.tumblr.com/post/632099956333903872)  
> \---  
> Remember to leave some love for the creator if you can! Come reblog this work and view others from this fest [HERE](https://hd-hurtfest.tumblr.com/) on the H/D Hurt!Fest tumblr page!


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